


Essence

by tekowrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Demonic Possession, Desperation, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Human Sacrifice, Implied dubcon, Magical Creatures, Mental Breakdown, Mpreg, OCs - Freeform, Secrets, Unforgivable Curses (Harry Potter), Unicorns, Werewolves, kid speech
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 00:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7145462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekowrites/pseuds/tekowrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his sixth year, Draco reaches for the only shard of sanity he can find, and puts his desperate faith into magic, the thing that has always set him apart as a pureblood wizard. The magic he unleashes though, is old, powerful, and maybe even more desperate than Draco himself, to leave an essence of life behind.</p><p>The little bump isn't what he needs to carry out his mission, but it might be the thing that saves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Essence

**Author's Note:**

> Draco is male through and through, I'm sorry if that disappoints anyone. I hope you give this fic a chance, despite how crazy a lot of it is, and far-fetched.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta Moonfacebaby *hearts* if you catch any other mistakes, they are solely my own.

Draco’s gaunt, haggard face stared back at him from the mirror. Myrtle was floating around in his line of vision, and with a start he realized that even her grey tint of color, looked a lot healthier than his.

“It would mean we can spend hours together in this bathroom. Just us two Draco. No worries. No loneliness.”

He shivered, sometimes her proximity invited nothing but a chill, and he could feel the mirror fogging up from his breath. It hadn’t been that cold a minute ago. Draco smiled at her, anything to get her to float back over the stalls, to not have death hanging around him, more than it already was. The messages kept coming, cryptic, unforgiving and _precise_. The cabinet itself was death, sending bits and pieces flying the minute he tried to extract whatever he’d placed, before he’d closed the coffin-like doors.

It should have been easy, it was only a question of either, or. But neither of the choices were good, neither of them actually easy. Myrtle squealed, telling Draco he wouldn’t need to make any choices if he were already a ghost, and he wondered if she’d ever met the Dark Lord.

***

It’s a week later, when he’s trying to make sure that his platinum hair is effectively hiding all the grey ones that have taken root in his head at his tender age, when Myrtle’s enthusiasm about his proximity to the afterlife, waned. Her fingers are like icicles when they descend onto, and then through his shoulders in comfort, and it’s there, in that moment that he wished she wasn’t dead, and broke down for the first time.

It became almost a routine, he’d slipped into the bathroom to report to Myrtle, his care for her is a smokescreen to the reality that she, in fact, was making sure he hadn’t withered further. He doesn’t tell her about the cabinet, about more orders, about his mother’s packages containing not the comforts of home, but reminders of duty, questions of progress and thinly veiled threats that he knows she’s being forced to include.

Myrtle tried to be helpful with comfort, and he appreciated that more than anything. Was even surprised when she told him to follow her one day, ducking behind walls in the dark of the night, miles from her comfort zone, from her bathroom. He almost asked why she stayed there if she wasn’t exactly chained to it, when something yanked her back at that exact moment.

The almost invisible thread coiling around her leg shined brightly once, as if in warning, and then disappeared. “This way.”

The castle walls are all the same, and this one, he’s passed by a hundred times. There’s nothing special about it, except that Myrtle, who is slowly fading, is almost guarding it. “Quick. The last stone at the bottom.”

He touched the cool, rough surface of the wall for an anomaly, and looked up, worried at Myrtle’s disappearing figure, when his fingers seemed to suddenly get swallowed up by the wall.

He looked, transfixed. It’s definitely a concealment charm, but the question lay in who was powerful enough to remove a stone from Hogwarts and even place a charm that hadn’t faded, despite the constant purging of spells the school went through.

“Do you have it?”

Draco’s not sure what she meant, until his fingers closed on something, and he pulled whatever it was, and pushed it inside his robes quick. Nothing but Myrtle’s face was visible now, and he knew he needed to get her back. He almost ran the entire way to the bathroom, and heaved a sigh of relief as Myrtle’s form slowly took shape again.

He checks his robes for the item he slipped inside, and finds the thickly folded piece of fabric, held together with a very thin strip of leather acting as a string, which he pulls apart. The piece of fabric is almost the length of his arm, but otherwise the size of a single sheet of parchment. He turns it around, squints at it, but nothing happens. The fabric is still a threaded white, that only emphasizes the fact it is just a blank, old-fashioned handkerchief. Blank with the exception of a monogram, embellished but also pale enough, that it was understated. He stared at the B like it held the answer to his unanswered questions, and was left wanting.

He looks around, but Myrtle’s gone. Her non-corporal body, she later explains, needed time to restore energy and materialize.

He’s still not sure what to do with the piece of fabric, or why they’d even risked Myrtle going all the way out of her bathroom prison to get it back. She only looks back at him hopeful.

“I remember hearing about it. I thought it could help you.”

“What, um, should I do with it?”

“I’m not sure. It grants help, that’s all they said.”

Draco knows better than to meddle with who ‘they’ are, Myrtle’s ghost has probably been in Hogwarts much longer than even Snape. Her memory is fuzzy at the best of times, but there’s only so much you can retain as a ghost. So he knows anything she does recall, is important.

“Thank you.”

She smiles, faint, unpracticed and awkward, before she explains why the girls’ bathroom is a perfect abode for Draco’s ghost.

***

He’s trying to contain the barrage of glass shards being spit from the cabinet’s latest test subject, and cuts his hand and cheek. The bleeding won’t stop, and Draco doesn’t really think twice before using the handkerchief to stem the flow.

But the blood didn’t seem to be stopping, despite the wounds being mere nicks, the flow makes him panic, his vision is fuzzy and there’s a definite feeling of lightheadedness that overwhelms him. It’s unclear when he exactly passes out, and he’s disoriented enough that when he does come to, he just stuffs the bloodied cloth into his robes and drags himself to the dungeons.

His sleep is always fitful, but tonight especially, it’s filled with nightmares and pain, the cuts are gaping wounds and the Dark Lord is digging his talon like fingers in them, creating more grooves and telling Draco to think, how these lovely lines would add to Narcissa’s beauty.

He opens his eyes and it’s morning. Everyone is milling about getting ready, his name is mentioned in hushed whispers, and someone says he’s sick. It’s Crabbe, and he’s thankful that he’s fending off people for Draco’s sake.

Draco got up and started changing out of his musty clothes. He’d dropped onto his bed without so much as taking off his shoes. It would be disgraceful, had he not lost just about all care for keeping up appearances. Just when he thought he’d finally had a moment of respite, he found the bloody piece of fabric he’d wiped the blood with the day before.

Then he stared close at how white and pristine it still was and shuddered. It was almost as if the thing had sucked up all that blood. Draco swallowed as it dawned on him that the thing had probably taken more blood than he’d actually wiped off.

He shoved it under his pillow, intending to dispose of it later, and made an effort to look like an over-spoilt snob. When his hair wouldn’t slick back like it used to, he gave up and made his way to classes.

***

It should surprise him that Potter is doing so well in potions, but he can’t spare the mental effort. His own concoction is leaning towards a lime color, rather than a burnished brown and he tries to draw up the will to fix it. He’s not fast enough though, because professor Slughorn notices, and there’s enough resounding pity in those eyes that Draco feels ashamed of himself. It took one broken cabinet for him to be a complete disappointment, in all aspects of his life. “Mr. Malfoy, you’re missing a key ingredient.”

“Wormwood, Sir. I’ll measure it out now.” Slughorn nods, approving and it almost, almost breaks the cloud of despair thundering inside him. Gryffindor loses no points that day, and Draco’s potion barely passes inspection. He’s not sure which is worse, but he catches himself on a smile. Maybe he still cared a little.

The rest of the week goes surprisingly well. Not wonderful by any means, not stellar either, but it’s enough to bring a sense of monotony Draco hadn’t expected he’d ever crave. He picks up the slack in class and Slughorn almost pays him the slightest attention at his latest achievements in brewing, but doesn’t announce as much, because Potter somehow has learned to raise the bar on perfection, pulling out constant miracles. Draco is slightly pissed that the oaf, with his awkward, slab-sized hands, could manage to do such delicate work. The annoyance is familiar, almost healing, and his mouth quirks, just a tiny bit upwards.

Still, somewhere in his mind, he feels like he’s forgotten something, then again, he was avoiding the cabinet, so there was no surprise there.

It’s only when a nightmare has him shaking, shivering in his cooling sweat, clutching his pillow as if were a comforting body, that he sees the handkerchief sitting where the pillow was, folded. He wonders why the house elves hadn’t left it on his desk, the nightstand, or on top of the bed, but chastises himself, thinking about bloody house elves and their domestic duties. His father would have a fit if he knew.

He picked it up, unfolding, trying to see if there was something there that he missed before. It’s still the same. He begins to wonder if Myrtle’s sent him on a wild goose chase, if he hadn’t completely imagined wiping his cuts on this thing. It sits there innocently, a reminder of someone else’s life, maybe even a token of someone’s love, sitting there in the castle, protected.

His thoughts followed him to the shower, slipping out of his dorm for the prefect ones, his nightmare momentarily forgotten. It’s still dark when he goes back to bed.

When he wakes up this time, it’s morning, people jeering, others complaining about having to wake up so bloody early, thoughts on breakfast. The shadows in his dreams screaming his name are gone.

He’s barely recovered from images haunting him, when a single letter drops in front of his empty plate. He picks it up, and whatever appetite he had is gone now. He thinks he might as well, and leaves for the Myrtle’s bathroom. The message is short, his mother no doubt, worried out of her mind, planning for Christmas. _Don’t come home. Stay safe._ He rips it to shreds before it can sink in. And a vindictive _incendo_ guarantees he won’t come back to it, read it, caress it, and think about it. He can’t afford to.

Quidditch practice becomes the perfect time to dedicate a few hours to the cabinet. A sharp, broken end of a stick stabs his hand, another antique chair lost in limbo sends its broken limbs back in regards. He reaches for his wand, but the handkerchief is coiled around it. He’s beyond weary of the thing, but has nothing to lose as he wraps his injury with it anyways. The blackout is welcome.

His name being screamed in his ear startles him awake. The cabinet looks on, even more innocently if possible, than the blood sucking handkerchief. He’s almost tempted to acquaint the two, before deciding that he needed to understand what the heck he was dealing with first.

Easier said than done, the restricted section taunted him with lack of access, and the librarian from hell. He’s not going back to Snape and groveling for a permission slip either. So he sneaks in at night.

One thing’s for sure, months with the Dark Lord, has taught him stealth. He doesn’t trip any wards, set off any alarms, sneaks past everything, and into the dark end of corridor marked with literary danger.

He tries to soften the glare of light from his wand, when he finds the handkerchief in his robes again. He needed to find a house elf and demand to know if they thought it was fun to mess with his head. He knew the bloody blood-sucking thing was last in his trunk, where he buried it under a pile of old books and robes. He uses it anyway, covering the wand.

The volume he’s looking for is the size of the entire shelf almost, _Wizarding Artifacts & How to Misuse Them: A Guide of Trial & Horror_. He pulls it off the shelf and almost topples over with the sheer weight of the book. He bags it, and then levitates the bag, creeping out quietly; making sure the charm he casted is still working.

Once he’s safely back in the room of requirement, he lets it thud to the floor, leaves the handkerchief with it, and attempts to sleep.

His eyes adjust to the too early morning, and he wonders how the handkerchief is just sitting there on his pillow, inches from his nose. He glares at it, as if that would make a difference, as if it would just answer him. There are no more letters, no more packages. Instead, Snape drags him aside and hisses, asks what he thinks he’s doing. Draco can only mumble that he’s waiting on instructions from Borgin, teeth clinched at having to even look at the man who took his father’s place besides the Dark Lord. He doesn’t stay to hear the rest.

***

The book isn’t as helpful. While it documents both the cabinet and the handkerchief, all the information points to their heritage. The cabinet being an obscure invention, and the handkerchief a family heirloom.

He reads on, trying to assuage why, and aside from being further horrified at the thing, he has no clue about how to utilize it.

_Believed to belong to the now completely eradicated Brouiller family, and used during their Flesh parties. Each family member was bequeathed one upon their first consumption of human flesh, to mark the occasion of their inclusion into the family practice. While length-wise the suggestion is that of a napkin, it would be found on the person of the family members outside the dinning hall (Ismer 1455, where the handkerchief was sighted on the person of Frauvi Brouiller, during a theatrical performance, The Parody of Non-corporal Ballet). Speculation on the fiber of the handkerchief as suggested by historian Eviangore Mercil, could belong to the rare offspring of a werewolf and unicorn. One documented case of its existence goes back to 1200’s, coinciding with the Brouiller family’s sudden rise in fame, and wealth. The pristine condition of the cloth is also suggestive of this, as the still live tissue regenerates constantly, and is rumored to feed on human and animal tissue. It continues to feed unless tied by a special thread of dragon hide. The item is of no danger while in its sedentary state. The ministry of magic holds the only known handkerchief to survive the eradication, in the Vault, which has stumped further research on it._

The strip of leather is gone though. Draco tries to rack his mind for where it could be, but aside from shoving it inside his robes when he left Myrtle’s stall, he can’t think of anywhere else. He hopes the damn thing hasn’t developed a taste for dragon, because that would leave him in deep shit.

But then, he wonders if all he needs is to feed the thing? It must have spent decades in that stone cavity, if the family had been hunted down for cannibalism back then. While he’s never heard of the family before, it stood to reason the scandal in Azkaban where prisoner’s bones were found in a cell with the body of a decrypt old man, that his father mentioned to Blustrode once, with ‘ _Last of their shameful line finally dying_ ’ might have been in reference to that.

It was a theory anyways.

He sneaks off bits of ham from the spread at dinner into his pocket. He doesn’t have to worry about getting any odd looks, as it seems the changes in his behavior have been accepted as an oddity. Blaze looks at him like he’d mad to think some ham will help with the Dark Lord’s plan, but Draco keeps silent.

Mostly because he feels something move inside the inner pocket of his robes, and he has to swallow thickly not to scream with the realization of what is happening. It is feeding. The bloody thing is feeding on the bits of food inside his robes. It is with great effort not to stumble on his liquefied legs that Draco makes his way to the room of requirement. He drops his robes and shivers in a corner, waiting for them to stop rustling, like they were moving on their own.

***

_There’s werewolf sitting at the bank of the river, sated for the moment and coming down from the rage of transformation. There’s mist, dark and cloudy surrounding it, before slowly, working itself inside the body. The werewolf doesn’t seem to notice, but when its body begins to rise, as if on its own, the panic is clear. It slashes itself, screams in agonized half-human, half-animal howls, before its neck spins, cracking and silencing it._

_The body continues to move, head askew, drooping to one side. It walks for what seems to be hours, condensed in a sprint of knocking away twigs and bushes. It finds its target, sniffing it out, and the unicorn attempts to fly. The werewolf latches on, and its eyes beam a dark red. There’s a resignation to fate, that echoes what he feels. By spring, the pregnant unicorn expels something from its body, kicks the earth around it, trying to burry it alive, and flies away._

_A paw digs out of the earth, a horn is next._

Draco startles awake. Of all the morbid dreams he’s had, nothing felt closer to real than that one. It’s akin to slipping into a memory, but the only werewolves he’s ever seen that close are Greyback and Lupin, but neither are dead, and neither have that extra appendage.

The room is still dark, so he feels the location of the handkerchief. It’s too much of a coincidence that the history of its existence would be linked to the events he witnessed in the dream. One thing’s for sure, the miasma surrounding the werewolf, was definitely a sign of possession.

_Clever. Though, not quiet._

He looks at the handkerchief and wonders if he’s lost his mind. Was the bloody thing talking to him?

_Maybe it is true, your kind becomes less intelligent the more you populate._

Draco feels the hair on his entire body stand up, his neck stiffens and the handkerchief spreads itself in front of his feet. The shock of light that follows reveals something that would put Hagrid’s height to shame. All Draco can recognize in a sense of abject horror and fascination, is the shape of hybrid animal. The long, single horn jutting from a bare head, back legs of a horse, covered in fur and ending not in hooves, but a ball of spikes. His eye can’t keep up with the face of the animal, and burn. The image is much clearer with his eyes closed.

_Quite young to be a serf. You may look away, We’d like you in working condition. We are called It. For services rendered, We will offer you help._

He talks, but no sound comes out. He feels his eyes and they are still closed. In the cover of night, it was possible that It, as it called itself, couldn’t appear except in his mind. His own body must be asleep again.

‘Why not show yourself when I’m awake? Unless your offer of help is a trick. Appear and show that you are not vulnerable, that your service to me will be true.’

A faint sound is all the warning Draco gets before something flings itself at him, crushing his body to the walls in the dream. He’s suffocating, but manages to choke a _crucio_ that does absolutely nothing. He tries again, and the word comes out whole, the weight is no longer trapping his body.

‘ _Foolish mortal. We cannot be exterminated. Your mind is too weak to hold Us in your palm, to even live out Our orders. Consider Our gift of knowledge enough as repayment of Our debt to you.’_

That settled it. Draco bites back any request to spare his family. It was clear the bastard thought of him as another servant. He wondered how these evil assholes kept ending up as figures of authority over him. Then again, if that dream held half as much truth as he thought it did, he knew he was in the presence of a devil.

Fucking cannibals couldn’t worship mythical creatures and dead bones, no, they had to find the one cluster of all things forbidden, and give him a pedestal.

_‘The Brouillers were slaves, We catered their needs and they served Us in kind. This little cloth was a mark of Our ownership over them. It was their honor to receive Us in this form.’_

Draco shuttered his eyes closed, and brought a mental wall down. His Occlumency wasn’t perfect by any means, but it was the only thing he could think of to stifle the voice of the creature. He shuddered to think what it would do if it had the rest of the handkerchiefs, and hoped the Ministry of Magic’s vault was sufficiently guarded. He felt something tap in his head, before the wall crumbled around him. His eyes were wide open now.

_‘Your species plays with magic, it has not mastered its use. If the ministry holds another part of Us, it is where We shall head next.’_

He tries not to visibly tremble. His aunt had begrudgingly praised his skills at Occlumency, but for them to be too weak, to only hold off the thing for mere seconds, exposed his weakness.

_‘Your mind is more adapt than your eyes. Consider it your honor that We’ve appeared in this form. Our true form would damage you forever.’_

It is absolutely of no comfort to Draco that his mind is a receptacle for communicating seamlessly with It, but has no power to hold It _off_. He has no more thoughts as deeper sleep claims him. In the morning, it all seems like just another bad dream, but when he reaches into his robe’s inner pocket, the handkerchief almost caresses his fingers, before he yanks them out.

He works on the cabinet. It, is usually silent when Draco applies himself to a task. Draco soon realizes that when his mind is occupied, he completely shuts It out, and that this must annoy It, more than anything. He walks in the following day to do more work, and It suggests It could help.

_‘You must realize these test subjects can’t tell you where your work is flawed.’_

Draco wants to answer that it wasn’t _him_ that broke the bloody cabinet from hell, when it occurs to him that nothing would be more familiar with limbo, than a devil.

He hasn’t seen much of the form, not since the first time It came to him, but now he can’t ignore the back of It, as It walks towards the cabinet. Furry, goat-like horse legs, hooves that are nothing but spikes, carrying short, white wings over a tail that swishes as It walks. The single horn is curved over It’s bulbous, shaved head, and the shifting hands, arms to paws to stubs covered in fur, keep swinging by It’s side, in enjoyment almost. Draco’s eyes burn and the image blurs, then disappears.

He almost wishes It comes back in pieces, but he’s never known himself to be that lucky. Privilege was one thing, luck was an entirely different matter.

Hours pass though, and he goes back to the dungeons, hoping this means uninterrupted sleep. For once, he doesn’t dream.

Borgin’s lack of response is another thing that grates on his nerves, and he plans to visit the old buffoon, and remind him that that the Dark Lord didn’t just have wizards to do his bidding.

He’s almost too eager in his planning, and ends up in class, sans his Transfiguration assignment. The points lost are a distant, dull ache of guilt. He doubts his father is any frame of mind to care about his performance at Hogwarts. So he leaves for the cabinet again, that’s his real test now, it’s what everything is hinging on.

It, rushes into his mind before he can begin to decipher what jolted him out of his thoughts.

_‘The link is not broken. It has been re-directed. Your magic is too weak as you are to restore, or redirect the link to a new connection.’_

Draco’s questions only increase, but It fades, like It’s magic has been exhausted. He recalls Myrtle, and something about reservoirs of magic per entity registers. If going through a broken magic link does that sort of damage, he needs to block it first. Not for It, but for the sake of who the cabinet will be transporting.

He hits the books again, endlessly reading and trying out different incantations, test subjects still come back mangled, and It doesn’t offer to assess the damage. Draco keeps feeding It, cold, raw cuts seem to be what It craves, and Draco won’t ask, and won’t even think about procuring human flesh. Mostly though, he ignores It, even when It’s obvious frustration tries to drive holes in the small wall of his mental concentration.

He’s mentally exhausted though, and It slips into his dreams and shows him things, things Draco wonders if they are coming from It’s subconscious mingling with his own, or are intentional visions. He’s not sure why they center around family, and his heart aches, even asleep, for his own. There’s nothing much in life he thought could hurt him, as the thought of his father rotting away in a cell, and his mother surrounded by Death Eaters, a constant threat of death on her head. He wishes he was stronger, better somehow. When he wakes up, mid dream, It’s amusement rankles a nerve in his brain.

_‘Gather these, little serf, and witness your desires met, your rebirth.’_

There’s a list. His eagerness is at odds with his relief of having a task he knows he can fulfill, that will help him fix the Vanishing Cabinet and complete his task. He doesn’t dwell on killing Dumbledore, there’s plenty of time before that’ll come to pass. The list of ingredients is nothing like any combination he has ever encountered. There are alarming pairings, that he knows cause something or the other, but since the list is long and he has to work hard to nick them from Slughorn, or sometimes, Snape’s own collection, he wastes no time thinking of what they will result in.

The ingredients brew and brew and turn into a murky concoction. The instructions demand it be preserved for a period no less than a month, but Draco has no preservation potions at the ready.

Slughorn announces they will be producing just the thing, and urges everyone to advance to page XXVI, and begin.

Draco pours all his concentration into not messing it up. He doubles the amount, measures everything twice over, ready to scoop the extra into the second vial he has, before submitting the first one.

It is with clear dismay, that he hears Slughorn announce that they will leave the cauldrons to cool, and come back the next morning with a sample of something they wished to preserve. His teeth are clenched so hard, he fears his jaw will set into a permanent lock.

He shows up with an empty vial. If asked, he’ll pretend there is fine hair in the glass. They hand their vials to Slughorn, and he dismisses them, citing the need to carefully scoop out the potion himself.

They aren’t given anything back. In fact, it seemed as if Slughorn, in his rush and excitement for his party, has forgotten all about it. Draco nervously watches the progress of his own potion, brewing away in one of Myrtle’s bathroom stalls, and decides to retrieve it himself.

He’s not annoyed at not being chosen for the fanfare of Slughorn’s party, he’s actually thankful that the opportunity presents itself. That is, until he’s caught.

He’d arrived expecting the vials to be labeled, to have some form of identification, but there’s only a small alteration of color in them. He finds the only clear bottle, sitting proudly on Slughorn’s desk and grabs it.

The hand that descends on his shoulder, the stink of someone’s breath calling _caught you_ , and promising all sorts of medieval torture, turns his stomach. He’s not sure he should be thankful when Snape intervenes, or mortified when Slughorn appears, thinking he tried to sneak into his miserable party. As if Draco was needy, as if he were an outcast. He was on a mission, he was entrusted with a task none of the miserable sods could begin to bear.

His words to Snape are acid, and he breaks into a run the minute it seems he’s alone to do so. The vial is safe.

Days later the potion stops bubbling. The potion is reduced to a spoonful, and Draco is extra careful not to spill any of it. He caps the vial and hides it away. He counts the days, and his relief grows the closer the date is. The potion will be ready in a fortnight.

It, beings to act differently. Draco’s suspicions are just that, mere suspicions, but there is a note of possessiveness that pervade any mental dialogue. Draco knows he’s getting more attuned to It’s moods, which is how he tries to explain the sensations of touch that had never existed before.

His dreams are different as well. His family features in all of them, and there’s a startling yearning that Draco realizes, isn’t his own.

He writes letters home, sends progress reports. He’s fully aware of exactly how the cabinet works, but the disturbance of the link requires time to fix. Borgin’s books on the cabinet are detailed, and Draco wished he’d threatened the man with the werewolf months ago, instead of dawdling on this task, thinking Borgin would help him for familiarity’s sake.

No response comes back.

At breakfast the next morning, there’s a clear line between him and the table occupants, he is given a wide breadth. Isolation feels like both a curse and a blessing. He stuffs his pocket full with roast. The handkerchief is always there, eating, cleaning, receiving. Draco no longer does it to see what happens. He does it because he’s had dreams of the Flesh parties, and those consumed are those who have failed to serve It. He’s sardonic when he wonders if they’d let him edit the piece about the handkerchief in _Wizarding Artifacts & How to Misuse Them: A Guide of Trial & Horror_. Probably not.

He sees Pansy laughing and leaning into Theodore Nott, and squishes any form of feeling that arises. The next day, sullen silence greets his entry to the common room, and he has a moment of panic, that someone _knows_ , has figured it all out, until he sees the quidditch paraphernalia laid in a heap in the middle. He forgot about the match.

Myrtle doesn’t ask him why he’s back so soon. He locks himself in the stall and wonders what he has left, that’s still important to him. It, is hovering in the recess of his mind, enticing him to cry, to break down and be taken care of.

He’s about to, he’s so sick and tired of everything that any type of relief is welcome. The door to the bathroom bangs open. There’s nothing but silence out there though, no stomping feet, no shoes on tiles, not even breathing. There are very few things, worse than what could happen if he’s found in the unused girls’ bathrooms though, so he stays put.

It’s a long time later when the door is clicked open again and the sound of shuffling feet is gone. He stays there a bit longer, just in case. When he opens the stall door, he catches another glimpse of himself in the mirror, and almost doesn’t recognize the sunken cheeks, the mad ruffle of hair, and the strained line of his mouth.

Three days before he’s able to take the potion, It, begins to disappear for long stretches of time. Draco knows It, is conserving energy by not appearing, but apprehension grows in him as he wonders what for. If It needed to harness his strength to leave, It could have done so days before. In fact, It shouldn’t have stuck around after the list at all.

The potion is ready but he doesn’t touch it.

_‘Not so eager now are we? Little serf are you afraid?’_

Draco swallows thickly, his mouth dry, he wonders why himself. He doesn’t answer, not with words. He thinks of a sudden increase in health amid the constant surveillance his classmates put him under, about the door opening in the bathroom, and about the distinct feeling that he’s being watched. Christmas, he thinks, he’ll be able to pass it off then as a mother’s touch.

It takes it in stride and doesn’t press, but Draco’s only worry is that It will find out the lie mixed in with the truths. When he’s sure It is gone, on his extended trips, he takes out the potion, and resolves to throw it away.

His hands shake, and his feet barely carry him. There are whispers behind his back, people watching as he walks with the gait of an old man. He passes a corner and spots Potter, smiling at something, who turns in time to catch Draco’s gaze, and then turns his back on him.

Draco uncaps the vial, his mind racing with images of a life that doesn’t seem to belong to him now, wins, friends, taunts, rivalry, and soft hands in his hair, petting the wildness down. But most of all, Potter ignoring him, right there in the hall, diminishes him like nothing his father has ever said about his failure to be, to rise to and become.

He drinks the potion.

***

What follows is a flash of white, hot, blinding pain. He feels as if his insides are being sawn through. He sobs, as his body is ripped from the inside out, skewered with sharp stabs. He digs his fingernails into his palms and howls behind teeth that are biting his lips closed, and scrabbles to move when a sensation of skin peeling away hits low in his gut.

It’s the horror though, the realization that something is incredibly, horribly _wrong_ with how this plays out, that makes the pain worse. Blood starts to drip on the tiles of the prefect bathroom, and Draco heaves the contents of his stomach. There’s one last rip of pain before he welcomes darkness.

By now, Draco recognizes the disorientation of a blackout. He’s lying in a pool of sick and crusted blood, and while he’d like nothing more than to cry, he struggles to get up, and assess the damage.

His clothes come off, but his trousers take the longest. He takes a deep breath, swallows the building tears, and concludes the source of the bleeding. He touches the sore, a single deep cut running the course of his perineum and his legs buckle underneath him. The pain from scraping his knees doesn’t register, all that does, is the bubbling panic threatening to overwhelm him. He damaged himself.

No. _It_ , damaged him. The thought brings a wave of dizziness, there’s a realization, a dull sound of alarm that conjures images of family, a forlorn mouth that doesn’t belong to him. His _wish_. He picks up his robe and puts it on with shaking fingers. If It comes to him now, magic rested, Draco won’t stand a chance. He heaves one more time, as the nightmare of what awaits him consumes him. He’d rather a human, even an enemy, even _Potter_ , than have It’s offspring.

He runs as if he has strength, as if his body isn’t breaking down and aching and his muscles aren’t screaming from the sensation of nails driving into them.

The common room is bare again, and he grabs something, a sweater, a tie, a sock. Draco binds himself with them, masking his body with someone else’s pheromones. He erects a solid mental wall and hides the truth, compartmentalizes his despair and madness into it. He can’t break down, not now. If he does, he’s lost forever, lost in something far worse than death could ever bring.

He doesn’t sleep. He knows it is mere adrenaline, that later he’ll be running on fumes, he’ll be caught, but the thought of his body being ripped to shreds by It, and the ache down _there_ that continues to pulses and burn, being _touched,_ shrivels all his sleepiness and lethargy.

Morning breaks through the windows like a curse, and Draco’s body is stiff from sitting, not yet awake. His shivering is part coming down from the adrenaline rush, part repressed sobs. The pain kept him up for the first half of the night, but it receded, and left him feeling as fragile as a shell.

He couldn’t, not yesterday, but today he knows It will come for him, and so he goes, despite not wanting to. The full length mirror was always a call for vanity, but unlike the times he’s stood in front of it, instructed it to change angle and give him a show, he can barely look at it. But it knows, all magical items _know_ and slips like liquid, under his feet, and gives him a reflection.

Draco covers his mouth, and wheezes, it’s so painful that he can’t even breath, the deformation, the neat eyelid-like incision brings up the acid in his stomach to the forefront, and he coughs at it forces itself out of his mouth.

The rest of the day flies by in a haze of disbelief, of denial. Potter eye’s are trained on the back of his neck, and Draco barely feels his presence. His potion is a muck, he’s not even trying, and Slughorn doesn’t even stop by his station to impart wisdom. If it weren’t for the fact the noise of work, of shuffling and the presence of people is the only thing keeping him from nodding off, Draco would have walked out of the class.

He’s in his chambers, behind the four poster bed’s thick curtains, when he hears the voice. It sounds close. He knows he’s not asleep, because when he gasps, it’s audible. He turns around, and sees only a black, thick mist.

_‘Curiouser and curiouser. How clever, Little serf. Tell Us, who was it? Such a strong signal too. Filthy thing like you, We should have guessed you would fake being untouched. Your wish for family, wasn’t just any, but his?’_

‘You’ve fulfilled my wish. I ask that you leave, like you promised you would.’ He’s not sure how the scent is that potent, but isn’t willing to give It the satisfaction of knowing the scent is fabricated. He strengthens his mental wards, keeps his mind on anything but the lie trying to come out, being coaxed to by It. The tone of anger, disapproval and rage, simmers to amused annoyance.

_‘Common fool. You think using Our gift to you for your own needs will affect you being Our new vessel? Little serf, We have lived through several millennia, We can stand to wait your months of agony.’_

Draco’s teeth chattered, his whole body shaking, there’s no relief in knowing his instincts were correct.

The foreign touch came from the inside out, something like sleek fur, but with several sharp claws, and they grazed his cheek. He felt sick. All he’d wanted to, was to have It leave. The potion, the feeding, keeping this from Myrtle, from everyone, he was at breaking point. He’s never been more afraid, more alone in his whole life. And then _that_ , which he’ll have to live with. It was unbearable. But there’s no escape, he can only hold on. The mist disappears.

***

That night, he tries not to close his eyes. A body settles behind his, leaves something – a paw?- on his thigh and rumbles words into his ear. His body isn’t strong enough to both repel It physically, and keep the lie safe, he chooses the later. It, is being kind, strangely so, covering Draco’s stomach, and Draco wants to scream that it’s disgusting, wants to recoil, but his body is starved, it leans in, moves like he has no control over it, almost primed to respond and Draco sobs, knows his eyes have been closed for a while.

The dream is vivid, he thinks, but trying to leave the bed and work on the cabinet becomes a difficult task when he realizes it wasn’t a dream.

There’s blood caked under his nails, and his whole bed reeks of the coppery smell of it. He’s in an incendo-ing frenzy, ripping the sheets off, burning it all, when something falls next to his feet. The leather strap is instantly familiar.

_It continues to feed unless tied by a special thread of dragon hide. The item is of no danger while in its sedentary state._

He wonders if it’s the only way, only when he’s tied the handkerchief into the neat rectangle it liked to keep itself in.

***

Several days later, and only when he’s a hundred percent sure that It, is gone, Draco breaks down, assesses the real danger he was in, and the situation he’s currently left with.

He casts his first _Imperio_.

He sets it back, in the hidden alcove he’d plucked it out from. Myrtle is confused, and Draco reassures her it must be done, when he shoves his blood soaked robe, transfigured into a stone slab, to cover the hole, he breathes a sigh of relief. The concealment charm would protect the transfiguration spell, and Draco hopes it’s enough to avoid anyone finding and releasing the darkness there.

When he hears about Katie Bell, he wonders for whose sake he’d really hidden the handkerchief.

Christmas is a waking nightmare, walking the halls with him, picking at the fixtures of the Manor. Greyback sniffs him, and bares his teeth, as if Draco’s been marked by something, and his nostrils pick it up.

He holes up in his parents room, and when his mother walks in, weary from entertaining her unwelcome guests, it’s Draco who comforts her. Draco who swallows the bile that rises in his throat, when her head ends up in his lap, looking up at him with affection and her hands holding onto his robes for comfort. A mimicry of what he used to do as a child, waiting for her to start stroking his hair. He’s amazed she allows herself this concession, but her proximity to what he’s ashamed of knowing even exists on his body, pains him. His body is marked physically by his failures.

She talks about his father, how he’s able to send word with bribes and connections. How he expects nothing from Draco. Except they both know he does.

When he leaves for Hogwarts, guilt gnaws on him for feeling any sense of relief while his mother is under constant threat. The Dark Lord is no It, but his attempts at nonchalantly breaching Draco’s mind, and his words, laced with coercion, took their toll on him nonetheless. He decides not to go home during Easter.

Goyle tells him he looks healthier, and Draco is more shocked by the statement, than the fact he hasn’t heard him say a word to Draco since the year began. He realizes it shouldn’t be so hard now, he’s close, the cabinet’s first link is blocked, and the objects seem to stay in the cabinet without damage. He produces his first genuine smile, and puts his friend to use.

It’s a good thing too, as Potter becomes obsessed with his whereabouts, is always two steps away when not with his own goons. When Trelawney somehow gains access to the room, Draco’s old pal panic, comes back again.

There’s another message, and Draco realizes the only reason it isn’t a howler, is that it would expose him. But it might as well have been. The words are few, but they cut deep. _Your family awaits execution._ The wording is clear, either he executes his orders, or they die.

The mead fails. The cabinet spits out a dead songbird. A crippling pain takes hold in his middle. Potter gets the vial of Felix Felicis.

He dreams again, nightmares and memories and calls of his name. The torso of It, a mist, and a small bundle moving on the floor. Draco looks into its face, tries to take it away, but the Dark Lord is there, and it’s too late. The bundle is lifeless.

When Myrtle asks him what’s wrong, he’s inconsolable. The flutter of life in his hand, had felt too real.

The words, the fears are barely out of his mouth, when he spots Potter looking back at him from the mirror.

He’s mad with grief, with shame, with a crippling realization of vulnerability. All of it would have gone away, if Potter hadn’t interfered.

“Sectumsempra!”

His body convulses, and he gurgles blood. Myrtle screams somewhere and Potter looks as deathly pale as Draco has been this entire year. He closes his eyes and hears _Fool_.

The pain is real when he opens his eyes, and he sees faces, Snape is there, saying something, the infirmary? But he can’t, he doesn’t know where the cut ends, his mark is a hissing bubbling mess, he has no options, not now, he can’t be laid up.

He wants to refuse, trying to and hoping his urgency comes across, but his body is being lifted, almost carried, and he shuts down.

***

He knows the cabinet is nearly fixed, because for the last few days, he’s begun his mornings in the bathroom, heaving the contents of his stomach. He figures anxiety is the cause, fear and responsibility, and shuts the part of his mind that asks, why then, is his stomach bloated, when he barely eats anything?

The swell isn’t even noticeable. He adjusts his robes and leaves the top button on his trousers open.

He’s sure, even though he can’t be, can he? He’s researched the ingredients, the spillage of books that have nothing to do with the cabinet are a testament to that.

Nothing happened. Even then, even with It’s parting ‘gift’, he hadn’t. So the question was, why was his body changing?

_In severe cases, it was thought to be the only possibility to help carry a child to term, when the female partner is in danger. The temporary vessel’s only outward physical change, is the birthing channel. The body creates a womb-like receptacle from the inner lining of the stomach. While research is split on how an egg is ultimately produced in the non-conforming body, the dominant theory is that an abnormality is caused in the production of semen, allowing several to release prematurely. The body’s rejection of the abnormality is done through the receptacle, recreating…_

He rubs his eyes. The book is several decades old, and even then, lists the practice and potion as abandoned practice. The fact the ‘channel’ is inaccessible and only acts as an expellant is somewhat of a relief. Though the stories of vessels dying from infections caused by the misuse of the channel is harrowing enough not to make his relief last.

One thing is for sure though, it was supposed to close up months ago, if he wasn’t carrying by the second month. If he really was, then how the bloody hell did he?

_Tell Us, who was it? Such a strong signal too. Filthy thing like you, We should have guessed you would fake being untouched. Your wish for family, wasn’t just any, but his?’_

The words echo and echo inside his head, and he curses himself for not asking, for confirming, for _something goddammit!_ But he’d been too afraid, thinking he was faking a scent, a scenario, to wonder who ‘he’ is supposed to mean.

His world crumbles, he can’t wish for death, or his family would die, death is a type of failure too. He touches the roundness, for the first time, wonders if it is scared too. He dreams of space, of a beating heart, of a thousand stars and cocoon of red.

The cabinet is fixed.

***

_Two months later_

“Mr. Malloy, was it?”

Draco nods his head, tries not to see if the disguise is failing him. He’s not just a wanted man, he’s a bloated one, trying to keep scandal to a minimum.

“Have you checked in with us, or anyone else for that matter, before?”

“No.”

“I see.”

She directs him to what looks like a torture device, and asks him to put the flimsy gown on. There’s barely a sound out of him, mortification running deep, coiled with unbearable shame and disgust at his own body.

He lays stiffly where she indicates, and has to bite his lip, and cover his face when his legs are positioned so far apart.

“It appears to fit with what you’ve described in your letter. Closer to the date, we’ll have to remove the membrane covering the inside. It will cause some bleeding, but it is a minor procedure, you won’t need to be admitted.”

In the face of Draco’s silence, his legs are lowered, and there’s a palm on his knee.

“Mr. Malloy we won’t be doing anything invasive. Truthfully, if you had come to us during the early stages, it would have been preformed then. The only danger now is we might risk damaging the birth channel.”

Draco mumbles behind his hands. It’s not like he wants her to misunderstand, he just doesn’t know how to say it. When it finally comes up, his throat feels as if he’d swallowed broken glass.

“I see. I should have expected that your partner would have knowledge about carrier vessels.”

The suggestion that he’s young, impressionable, foolish, is there at the tip of her tongue, he knows. He blocks the memory of It, doesn’t want to think about how the membrane was removed. All he needs to know is if the baby is alright, and when he can preform a reveal of the magic signature attached to the baby. Not that he’s in any hurry to figure out who might be the father, but, for the safety of the baby, he’ll have to send it away.

She conjures a bubble, after an incantation, with her wand held close to his swollen stomach. He sees the little shape wiggle and feels an answering kick in his gut. His chest swells with something akin to pain, and he can’t breath, but for once it’s not out of fear, not out of sadness. The only thing he manages to croak out is, “it’s a boy.”

When she prescribes nothing but rest, he nods, knowing that isn’t likely to happen. His father might be back, but the Manor is still infested with death-eaters, and any pretense at anything but obedience and normalcy is a deathtrap.

His father is still trying to come to terms with the fact they have a pregnant wizard in the family, but between the both of them bonding in the early hours of the morning over night terrors and nightmares, he thinks things could be worse.

Narcissa, on the other hand, shares, and sometimes _overshares_ , trying to help him adjust. He keeps trying to remind her that he in fact, is still very much a _boy_ , despite his predicament and protruding stomach. But when she shows up at night with extra pillows, pain relief potions, and plates of dessert, he’s nothing but thankful.

A recurring nightmare sees him reaching out, and he finds his father standing there in his room, watching over him. He’s never known his father to allow weaknesses, but when Draco clings to him, all he does is shush, and card fingers through Draco’s sweat soaked hair.

It’s always the same, he loses the baby, he knows, because in each dream there is sharp pain and then blood everywhere. The baby lies there like a blood clot himself, stiff and greyish, covered with blood. Draco holds onto it, and it turns before his eyes, into something furry, familiar, horrific.

He wakes up and checks for bleeding, and then spends hours caressing the bump, telling it it’ll be alright. He can’t do that in one position though, as he’s easily discomforted. He keeps mostly on his back, shifts to the side when a pillow is placed just right, and tries to not walk on his suffering ankles. Once his own heartbeat slows, he waits for the baby to kick, to respond back.

It’s a small kind of comfort, from the reality of what he’s doing. The removal of the baby was first on his mind, on their mind, but how to reverse the process isn’t documented, and there’s a moment of silence as to why that is. Dead men tell no tales.

He craved insane, disgusting combinations of food all the time, but that’s better now as he’s further along. What he was hoping would change -though really, it was a sort of blessing in disguise-, is that the mere smell of werewolves seemed to make him vomit, paving the way for several excused dinners in the presence of death eaters, especially after he couldn’t hold it in.

And while his delicate situation always invited the presence of his parents in his room, a period fraught with hormonal imbalances, was enough for them to be discrete and stop walking into his room without knocking. A couple of months later it’s no longer an issue, as his stomach rises high enough to hide any morning wood. He prays for memory loss after the birth, and manages not to make eye-contact with his father as he hands Draco a catalogue, and heating towel, and vaguely gestures to Draco’s chest.

He consoles himself with the fact his parents must have agonized over who was going to have to bring him the kit. The towel helps with the cracked nipples and the swelling, but it doesn’t help with the feeling of desolation that grows each day.

The Dark Lord still has tasks for him, and he’s more invested in keeping up the concealment charm, than he is with thinking about what he’s doing, and how reluctant he should be.

Every time Potter is mentioned, there’s a flutter in his stomach. He keeps a stony face, and puts off the revealing charm. There was just no way.

_‘But professor, I did hand it in. I left it on your desk after class.’_

_‘Be that as it may Mr. Potter, I’ll need you to either produce another sample, or points will be lost. I assure you, I looked for your sample thoroughly. Perhaps Mr. Malfoy would lend you some of his, he seems to have made quite a large dosage aside from what was handed in.’_

He shakes his head again, hand covering his stomach in protection. It just can’t be.

***

He knows it’s due any day now. He can’t catch a break, he moves like a whale would and the need to piss is constant. He’s afraid to sit down and feel the baby press hard on his bladder, so he walks, moans about his fucking ankles growing to the size of tree stumps and tries not to cry when he realizes _Merlin it’s going to really happen._

He’s fucking pregnant and he’s having a baby and Merlin knows it might turn out to be Potter’s for real and he’s _fucked_ if that’s true.

A baby. Him. He’s barely legal. He has no idea how to take care of himself, let alone a living, breathing human being that can’t even bloody _talk_ and tell him what it needs. His mother is almost wistful as she recalls tales of leaving him in his nursery with house elves and nannies as she needed a break, or had to attend to social events. He can’t have that though, all he has is a plan to board the Hogwarts train and then stay in Muggle London to have the baby. The flat his parents purchase is somewhere quiet, with a small park and the odd bar, resilient against selling, still in business. All thoughts of sending the baby away to a clueless father who wouldn’t believe he has a baby, are thrown out the wind. Draco pretends he’s not certain, even when the baby is physically telling him the truth, but even so, there’s no way he can send the baby to Potter. In fact, the whole reason he’s careful about every little detail is that if the Dark Lord catches wind of this…he can’t bear to think of what will inevitably happen. He can’t tell his father either, because, accepting that your son is having a baby, of all things, is one thing, having the baby be Potter’s, would ruin his father.

His trunks are sent ahead to the flat, and once he gets there, he realizes that most of his stuff will have to go. The place is a tiny, hole in the wall _shed_ that’s supposed to be discrete, to not hint at wealth. He supposes it’s also the only thing available on such short notice. With the war in full-swing, he wonders why they hadn’t thought of something like that early on.

He knows keeping money in the flat is out of the question, but when he ventures to the Muggle thing called bank, he’s confused as to why Muggles do menial labor, especially when they lack the magic to make it easier to do. The man is well-dressed though, and Draco feels confident that the process won’t be too painful. Until the Muggle looks him up and down and sneers. Draco’s not exactly dressed for success himself, sure, with the baggy Muggle clothes he managed to find, that cover the swell of his stomach so well, and the wide pants that allow him to bend comfortably, and are only held up by a string. But he’s seen them wear this as they walk outside, and he knows that must mean it’s the height of fashion.

“We’re not in the business of giving loans, especially not to minors.”

Loans! As if! He’s a split second away from starting on a tirade of why _no_ Malfoy has ever borrowed so much as sickle from anyone, in _all_ the generations past, and he would not be the first to break this trend; but he looks at the man again, assesses the cut of his clothes, and concludes he looks like a homeless man to the deity running the bank. He leaves without opening an account.

Magic becomes a difficult task. He was fine the first week, but now every accio and every mending charm results in unexpected disasters. And while that makes everyday life inconvenient, Draco learns to appreciate Muggle food all the more, when this forces him to eat out.

He regrets the oily chips just seconds from having his first contraction. Panic overcomes him, and suddenly all the horror stories he’s heard, from eavesdropping on girls and his mother’s friends, are a pulsing reality. He tries to walk it off, he has potions for this, and tries to locate them. He’s grasping one in his hand when pain shoots through his back and he whimpers, as pain unlike when he’d first taken the potion, comes back ten-folds. The first vial falls and breaks, spilling all over the floor, but he uncaps the other one and swallows the acrid liquid down as fast as he can without chocking.

He tries to breathe, but he’s straining so hard the he can’t even get to the bed. He wants to send a signal to his mother, to anyone, but he can’t, he can’t even find his wand, can barely move his eyes away from the sight of water rushing between his legs. The Muggle clothes have to come off, and between grabbing the bedrail for support, and yanking it out in pain, he manages not to fall. The pain doesn’t subside completely, and he’s aware of every movement, every pulsing throb, but knows what he has to do. He doesn’t even know how to navigate the muscles around the channel but he tries, and screams and begs, wishes, prays and pushes like his life depends on this, and it does, he knows it does.

It feels like hours, lying there facing death and hoping for a miracle, white knuckles bloodless with holding on to the mattress. And then the convulsions are faint, and he lifts his head to see. He watches at the precise moment the baby lets out an ear-splitting scream, the shatters the small glass of water that rolled on the floor, and probably other objects that Draco is suddenly too tired to think about. He severs the cord, and holds the little baby, gunk, blood and all, until it stops whimpering, and then he can start crying.

When his eyes are open next, his mother is in the flat. It’s dark outside, and he notes with an absent sense of shame, that she’s cleaned him up. The baby is in a delicate swath of green and white, and when she hands him to Draco, he knows why. He wishes she’d leave for this part, but he can’t even move, and the pain is coming back, so he loosens the robe she’s put on him, and closes his eyes when the baby latches on.

“I can’t stay Draco.”

“I know.”

“Have you named him yet?”

He swallows thickly, he’s not sure why they haven’t had this conversation before. Then again, there was so much uncertainty. “Scorpius.”

“Scorpius. Your father will be pleased.”

It’s a sufficiently Malfoy name. He looks at the muddled color of Scorpius’s eyes, the fine dark hair that covers the soft, delicate crown, and smiles.

It helps that for the first month, food is sent via house elves. SMuggled sandwiches, juice and cold meals Draco has learned to heat in the white box. It wasn’t a pleasant process the first ten times, as he’s either set something on fire, or managed to melt something. The trick, he smirks at himself with triumph, is to watch the spinny top glass thing and then open the box when something starts to bubble.

The Dark Lord is no longer staying at the Manor, but his infrequent visits are enough to keep Draco away. Besides, Scorpius’s constant, loud, endless screams would give the entire family away in seconds. That, in a series of other things, makes Draco wish he’d died during childbirth. It’s a cycle of shitting, feeding, burping, and changing. His arms are constantly, mechanically moving and performing rituals. He tries the Muggle milk potion they call formula, that the ladies at the Tesco tell him about, in between cooing at Scorpius, who grows silent and blank at the girls, but is possessed by the devil at home. Scorpius doesn’t take well to it, and Draco’s frustration and anger is gone in the face of the discomfort the baby is obviously in. When Scorpius throws up on him this time, Draco laughs, smiles at the little bundle in his arms and thinks, at least it wasn’t urine this time.

When Scorpius’s sucks too hard the next time he latches on then, Draco has to stop himself from wincing instead. He learns to alternate with the cream, and when they’re extra sensitive, he doesn’t wear anything. He’s almost thankful Scorpius’s appetite is so big, as he doesn’t think he’ll survive them leaking. It doesn’t stop the milk from crusting though, and he hates himself when that becomes part of his grooming ritual.

One Sunday, Scorpius’s screams are endless. Draco tries everything save shake the baby apart, and wants to scream himself when nothing works. He places a hand on Scorpius’s tiny temple and wonders if it was always this hot.

There’s no fire-place, so he can’t floo or communicate with anyone, but he casts a charm and adopts the disguise, before trying to locate a hospital. It occurs to him too late that he’s deep into Muggle London, and the chance of finding a hospital that isn’t, is near impossible. He goes into the first Muggle hospital he finds and they take his details down. Scorpius is somewhat subdued, but his tiny, harsh wheezing pulls at Draco’s heart with pain. When his name is called, he’s startled, but makes his way inside the examination room.

The room is cold, and he’s apprehensive when he’s told to undress Scorpius. The devices they use, and the tools, look gigantic when used on the small body, but he keeps mum, and hopes he’s made the right choice.

He pretends not to notice the doctor’s odd look when he asks him to explain how to administer a drop for congestion. His disguise might make him older, but his inexperience is painstakingly obvious. The doctor takes the time to explain though, and nods when Draco replies that this is his first baby.

“He’ll be fine.”

Draco’s lips tremble a little in relief, and he takes the medication and sorts out the bill, holding onto a quiet Scorpius. He realizes that they’re all mudbloods, only after he sets Scorpius in his cot.

His father would be reeling if he knew Draco was taking care of Scorpius using Muggle methods. But Draco has no experience with charms or spells that are safe for use with babies, and Scorpius isn’t going to be his test subject either. Himself he doesn’t mind, and continues to try things that might give him his flat belly back. By then, the uncomfortable and constant bleeding has stopped, and he notes, with embarrassment and relief, that the channel is closing up. He feels more himself, despite the stretch marks, despite the flab and the crusty nipples, just having his anatomy back the way it was, is enough.

His world narrows down to just Scorpius. Well, not really, he’s also immersed in the act of looking through the gigantic catalogue that is dropped at his doorstep one day, and asking Scorpius what he thinks those gadgets are. Scorpius just gurgles, which Draco takes as a sign of approval and starts buying them.

He makes sure to drop the broken pieces into the blue box, so he’s not sent another of those letters containing death threats from the Muggles picking up the trash.

Scorpius seems to take to the Muggle things though, and the little immobile toys that crinkle, ring and make music that sounds like it’s coming from a magical music box, but nothing seems to spin in them, and the dancers are absent. He ruminates on what the Muggles don’t have, there’s no carnival globe, no miniature dragons projections, or even a multiplying unicorn. All the toys are static. He wonders if he can get away with a trip down to Diagon Alley, but forgets all about it when Scorpius grips his finger in a small, but mighty fist. He squeezes the squeaking duck, and watches Scorpius’s eyes lit on it. He coos, trying to imitate the babble that comes out of his son’s mouth and it’s an exercise in regression, and he tries not to diminish Scorpius’s obvious enjoyment, by thinking how stupid it is. Scorpius makes fish faces at him, which, coupled with his thin almost white hair, is enough to make him smile for hours. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt joy this pure. He puts the little baby in his cot, tucks him in, and lays in bed looking at him. He wonders if he should be sharing this with Potter, the joy, the funny faces, the little wiggle Scorpius does with his feet that’s so endearing, even though, logically speaking, it makes him look like a chocolate frog trying to leap.

He tries with the Muggle clicking lens, and when he fails to make it do what he thinks it should be doing, he takes it back to the shop before he breaks it, and tries to forget that these Muggles are lower than him, as the girl with the freckles gives him the name of a shop that will help him.

“It’s called a camera,” he proudly tells Scorpius, as if he’s known all his life, and has started to impart his knowledge to his son. He doesn’t get the ‘cheese’ Charm he’s supposed to say before he clicks the red button, and he omits it, because Muggles don’t have magic, so why are they calling upon the name of dairy? His musings fall on deaf ears as Scorpius continues to be fascinated by the round, dangling toy with the fake mirror, and his own distorted face looking back at him.

The camera works, and Draco discovers the joys of clicking and clicking and when he accidently makes a moving picture, he’s so fascinated by it, he watches it at least seven times while Scorpius’s is at his chest, making smack sounds with his lips on Draco’s skin. He goes back to the store several times, to ask about things. He’s not stupid, but the Muggle manual is filled with Muggle words he’s never come across before. Things like the self-checkout creature that yells at him when he does something wrong and causes a scene, and isn’t appeased by Draco’s attempts at rational. It’s a painstakingly long process, but little by little, he adjusts. He wouldn’t have to, he reasons with himself, except that he’s looking after Scorpius. When the camera thingie refuses to make more pictures, he goes back to the shop again.

They’re nice to him, because they see him carrying Scorpius around, and they look at his photos and can see Scorpius is their only subject of composition. They offer to print some pictures for a low price, and Draco is amazed they’ll be able to print the images. He takes them home and realizes they don’t move, are not animated and is somewhat desolate with the knowledge. He buys dozens of the memory chip like thing, but learns when to remove pictures of his thumb covering the light compartment that flashes, and prints dozens more. In the back of his mind, he thinks Potter will also want to see these, demand to be part of the life of a child he never knew he had. He tells himself showing him these pictures will do.

Christmas is drawing near, and the Dark Lord is off somewhere trying to get a special wand. He’s taking Scorpius to the Malfoy Manor, to meet his grandfather.

He’s learned to exercise control when it comes to using magic, around or for Scorpius, and it’s with a heavy heart, he charms the vibrant, emerald forest irises to a light grey. Not that it will last for the duration of their visit, but he hopes he won’t need to, not after the initial inspection. Though he doesn’t camouflage the ears, they’re definitely Potter’s, and the rounded chin, but then, that could just be baby fat. Other than that, Draco knows his baby is perfect. Innocent eyes look back at him, seconds before Draco registers the foul smell. He gets up to change the diaper, thinking, _almost perfect_.

If he’s worried about the Manor admitting Scorpius, it all fades as the barrier of magic protecting his family for generation, dissipates the moment they cross. There’s a painful sensation of happiness and pride, as they cross the threshold, and while his inner conflict on what it means now to be a Malfoy is still raging within, that his son is one rests warmly in his heart.

He should have known though, he chastises himself out of the new emotions he’s experiencing, he was pregnant with Scorpius when he was in the Manor last, what was he expecting? But he can’t deny the fear of tiny little horns and a shape-shifting baby ready to feed on his body at night. He shakes himself, and looks again at the curious gaze his son throws at him. Clear –now grey- eyes focus on him, starting to make out shapes as big blobs of color, and Draco as the constant blob in his life. Draco sometimes has the sneaking suspension that Scorpius can recognize him by smell, if not him, then the faint whiff of sour milk that Draco knows is there, but can’t get rid of or hide with abrasive colognes.

All his apprehension flies out the window when the tired, scowling face of his father melts away at the sight of Scorpius. It’s almost like an out-of-body experience watching his father handle the little bundle, letting the little hands connect with his face and laughing, actually _laughing_ when Scropious’s enthusiastic moving smacks him on the nose.

A few days later, it starts to grate on his nerves how his parents manipulate his baby’s time. The only time he can hide and coo at his baby is feeding time, and that’s only possible because his parents are awkward with the knowledge that their son is breastfeeding. Scropious starts making funny sounds that constantly remind Draco of a hooting owl, and he laughs at that, knowing it’s all Potter’s fault that his son hoots like an owl, probably because that snowy owl Potter owns is his only friend. He comes out of the room with a fed baby to the grubby waiting hands of his doting parents, wanting Scorpius back, and he knows it wouldn’t matter if they knew Potter was the baby’s father, but for the fact that knowledge might get extracted from them. When he’s within reach, they look at the ridiculous outfit Scorpius is wearing and make faces. His father sneers, and his mother tut-tuts at the Muggle elf costume, which Draco found hilarious, not because his son looked funny in it, his son was adorable in anything, but because Muggles sure had funny notions of what elves wore.

They complain about it all through their stroll outside the snow surrounding the Manor and its gardens, but no one actually takes it off Scorpius. The fox sleeper gets the same grumbles, but he catches his parents playing with the fox ears and tail, and allows them steal his son for a while.

His son wails, predictably, and he’s handed over to Draco faster than he could blink, with that same awkward side-look that meant the baby is hungry stop dawdling and feed him Draco. His mother teaches him a safe charm to help keep Scropious's nails clipped, and he only attempts it because Scorpius seems fascinated with his face, and keeps scratching his cheeks, along with whatever uncovered parts of Draco’s chest he can reach during feeding time.

They don’t pose for a photo, they don’t pose for a portrait, they agree without actually agreeing to drop the tradition this year, knowing the danger. Draco doesn’t tell them about the Muggle camera and the thousands of pictures he has and could share with them, because he knows, just like they know, how things like these could expose them. Instead, they exchange presents, and Draco’s more grateful for the fact his son is getting his silver rattles and his old, but still pristine toys, than he can ever say. It’s the one time getting something new isn’t on all their minds, just having that moment together, is enough.

The Portkey takes them back on Boxing day, and as much as Draco feels sad and anxious leaving his family, he wants to put Scorpius back on a regular sleeping schedule, because there’s no one there now to switch shifts with him. He has instant regrets the moment he notices that Scorpius could now tell when he leaves the room. It drives him nuts, he starts taking Scorpius into the bathroom with him and wheeling the changing table there too. His head will turn in the middle of the night and see nothing but the small cot’s foam covering and he’ll scream his lungs out. The bar owners say hello to him as he starts to walk at night outside the small place, always a decent distance away, when he’s trying to calm Scorpius down at 5am in the morning, just as they’re loading and unloading metallic, labeled barrels.

Draco and Scorpius don’t see his parents again until Easter, and that’s when all hell breaks loose. Scorpius is taking a nap in the converted walk-in closet of Draco’s room, when aunt Bella’s voice rings through-out the house. She’d arrived that day out of the blue, and Draco’s been blocking his mind all throughout lunch and trying to make his excuses to hide in his room, but it’s like she can smell a scam and won’t leave him alone until she sniffs it out.

Then Potter happens and his bloody entourage happen, caught by lackeys. And all Draco can think is that he’d thought for a time that Potter could take care of Scorpius, keep him safe from the Dark Lord. Draco might be a death eater, might be a Malfoy whose name would be dragged into the mud if the side he’s slaving for, ever loses, but Potter? Potter was a moronic death trap waiting to happen and kill their baby.

So he fakes uncertainty, while looking at the fucking face of bloody Potter, a face he’s had to look at for six fucking years at school and face those eyes, chin and ears that his own son has inherited, and lies through his teeth about knowing the ape. It helps that the fool had somehow gotten himself a bloated face. When he hears Granger though, he knows everything is up. He shoves them in the cellar, distracted, trying to think things through. He never expected his moral duty to his family would suddenly include Potter as well. He prays for Scorpius’s silence if the house-elves get called in, if they had to leave the nursery he’s stashed his son in, just before coming down. He’s taunted with images of years down the line, and having to admit to another failure, and become another disappointment to someone.

When the choice presents itself, he doesn’t _accio_ his wand back, huddles seconds before the chandelier comes crashing down on all of them. He sees the blood, but this amount doesn’t faze him anymore, but he pretends a wrist injury like he’d done all those years ago, and walks away useless when his aunt Bella is screaming the ears off of everyone and telling them how this failure will displease the Dark Lord.

Displease is the understatement. When he and his father are finally excused, Draco doesn’t need to fake his fractured wrist, as several rounds of _crucio_ took care of that lie. The Dark Lord is gone, but not without a warning, and Draco has to stifle every mad impulse to check on Scorpius throughout the entire ordeal.

He finds him floating in a bubble, right above his crib, and Draco has to maneuver it on his one good arm, before it pops, and his tiny precious baby yawns, untouched by the nightmares happening downstairs. It makes a lot of other choices easier.

Draco had never thought of his own mortality quite like he’s started to, these past months. It was eternal wealth and health before, then imminent death the previous year, and now he has terrible dreams where he dies and his un-announced baby and heir suffers. His baby shouldn’t be judged based on Draco’s actions, nor does Draco want Potter to be the one blanket of goodness everyone wraps Scorpius in. He decides Potter doesn’t need to know, and begins to plan the next course of action he must take to begin protecting his son.

When he walks into the bank this time, he’s wearing the best suit Muggle money can buy, and stares down the twerp from last time, with years of lived privilege and the name that always got things done for him and his family. He’s not stupid though, so he uses a fake name, it’s not difficult, he’s already obtained the fake ID from some shady place he’d rather not remember now. He’s seated, and his account is open within the hour, he makes a large cash deposit, large enough to buy several houses, and informs his personal banker slave, that he’ll be transferring more over several weeks.

He’s not even making a dent in his personal spending vault, but large withdrawals always look suspicious, especially when he’s supposed to be at Hogwarts getting an education. The suit hangs somewhere in his dainty shed, but he doesn’t move out, nor does he buy any properties. He buys Muggle insurance for his son, registers Scorpius with their bureau and gets him some identification. He’s never had to use any in the wizarding world, but he’ll make sure not to leave any chance something bad might happen to them in the Muggle one instead.

He can’t keep Scorpius on the milk forever, and he can’t keep inhaling the greasy, delicious stuff from the shops around, but lack of exercise, of flying, and doing nothing but eating and playing with the baby is starting to show. When he goes back to wearing his pregnancy clothes, he knows a change has to be made at home as well.

Not that he thinks of this hovel as a home. Well, not always. Only when Scorpius does something in a specific corner that then becomes sacred. But he doesn’t plan to stay here forever, so it’s pointless to get accustomed to such dingy dwellings. For now though, he’ll keep filling the walls with pictures, the floor with toys and the wardrobe with clothes. He takes only one picture of Scorpius in the hideous, gold embroidered, silk charmeuse. There are pearls dotting the lapel, tons and tons of ruffles, and the dress has a tail that could swath Scorpius twice over and still leave a length unused. It’s a traditional piece, handed down through generations of Malfoys, kept pristine by magic and careful hands. He intends to send it back by owl the moment he can afford to keep one on his person. For now -and he thinks it’s cheesy to even think so- the only owl hooting in his home will be his baby.

***

_Three years later…_

He’s packing away the last box of winter clothes, flicks his wand, and watches as Scorpius’s coats shrink themselves into even tinier articles of clothing, and dance their way to the box. He hates to think how handy he’s become with all these domestic chores, but at least he’s faring better than most. Post the war and the fall of Voldemort, it seemed like everyone and their sister was pregnant or was having a baby. The rising birth rates in the country as whole were met with several confused head-scratches, and economists all over the world were blaming it on lack of jobs and lack of outdoor activities, so that society has made a sport of popping kids. The wizarding world on the other hand, had its hands full with producing birth certificates and raising eyebrows at certain babies’ parents.

Everyone, except Harry Potter and his girlfriend. Not for lack of trying, assures the lascivious magazines, dedicating a page to the reader’s questions about Potter’s wand and its lack of performance. If Draco was into that type of petty entertainment, he’d assure everyone that Potter’s swimmers had no problem performing, why, he could get people pregnant without even _having_ sex with them. But he wasn’t, and that settled it.

He’d gone back to Hogwarts on that miserable, frightening day, filled with determination to help Potter’s cause, even if the buffoon relied more on luck than brains, but Draco owed Scorpius to try and save his father.

It hadn’t gone exactly how he’d wanted it to, but there are hardly any people left to rehash the tale with. He’d left the baby with the bar owners, babysitting Scorpius, with instructions on who to call should he not show up. It was such a slow night at the start, spent just waiting, that he even went back, picked up Scorpius and dragged a house elf from the Manor to watch over him instead.

He was summoned in the middle of his goodbye, and made it back into Hogwarts in time to witness the final battle. It never dawned on him the severity of his position until he was in that bloody room again, trying to stand between his childhood friends and the man, boy really, who shares blood with his son. When the fire eats everything in sight, and Potter scoops him up onto the broom, it was the faint sound of laughter, of something winding itself around his neck and telling him to let go, to come back to where all the memories that’ll haunt him forever, had formed, that had him gripping the reality that was Potter’s back to him.

He was a distracted mess when he was no longer near the fire, and he’d known for sure, he’d known for the first time since the start of the glory of what it meant to be a death eater, that there was no glory to be had, in leaving friends to die in pits of hell. The only thing he could offer this battle, was his scarcity, and the only support he could offer Potter, would be post the battle.

Sure enough, Potter had conquered the Dark Lord, and Draco had pitched his insane idea to his parents. They could have ran, really, all of them, and lived a flush life and never had to answer for anything, not until the Wizarding World settled and they could buy their way in again. He’d wanted a life for Scorpius, and the only way to make sure they wouldn’t be hunted down and exposed, was to not hide, to appear as though there was nothing there to hide in the first place.

It had been a serious test of determination and wills when all their funds had been frozen, when the Manor was ransacked for all manners of things, and to a litany of excuses, while his father and mother watched. Draco had stayed in Muggle London though, and it was the only way his parents would accept the choice, which was no choice at all, of turning against everyone they knew. It sure seemed like they all didn’t have a choice when all their family heirlooms were being shuffled out of the door for safe keeping and testing at the Ministry’s vaults. He’d never seen his mother sneer quite like that, until the grubby handed clearing staff were trying to make away with the Black family’s items as well. The sheaf of parchments she produced with claim to all of those items made the Aurors shuffle back to return them in their _exact_ previous position. It didn’t mean the Manor hadn’t become sparse. Not that it mattered, word was out, and the Manor was no longer entertaining any guests. So much for promises of informant’s right to privacy.

The converted money he’d accumulated in Muggle London though, had been untouched, laws of jurisdiction and all. His father had always been a business man first, and when Draco spotted new items appearing to replace the old in the Manor, he knew, frozen vaults or not, his family wouldn’t need for anything. But it wouldn’t do to act stupid with his own, so he stayed at the little shack, until he could safely finish that last year in Hogwarts.

His year had no traces of the struggle to send in assignments, to perfect the color of a potion, to sight meaning in tea-cups. It had been filled with the wails of a child spitting out pumpkin puree, sprouting molars and whimpering with fevers, learning how to bathe a squirming, soft body that would sometimes develop odd rashes. Playing Peek-a-boo as the book instructed, collecting the wooden blocks Scorpius would throw, and handing them back again, watching as tiny fists curled over objects, smacked them together, and bashed them on his own head before going into fits. Mornings when he woke up and found Scorpius latching on even in his sleep, and Draco wondering when he’d gotten into the habit of comforting the baby and falling asleep while he nursed. He hadn’t been sure if the crawling had been the best or the worst thing he’s ever experienced with Scorpius, but when he’d been watching the struggle of knocking knees, chaffed sleepers and dangling fabric while his son made his way to daddy, all Draco could do was bestow kisses and smiles. He’d tried to remember those feelings when Scorpius started chewing the bedspread, and pulling tablecloths, towels and sheets from once they’d been, onto the floor of their eternally shrinking abode.

His neighbor had scolded him for not baby-proofing his house and he’d almost hexed her. What did she know about the crawling menace? So magic made its way back into the house. The sheets folded themselves, the tablecloth acted like a lady crossing over water and lifted the pleats when Scorpius made like a bull towards it. Every piece of furniture with a hard edge got a protective bubble around it, to protect Scorpius from any childhood scars.

He had suffered an embarrassing episode once when he ran to the night clinic near his place, with a loud baby, purple bags under his eyes and no idea how to comfort his son, or calm his red-faced screams. When the doctor gives him something that turns out to be gas medication, while Scorpius let out a symphony of trapped bubbles under the doctor’s expert rubbing hands, Draco had decided that his neighbor, with her gaggle of grandchildren seemed like the best bet for pre-doctor appointment cross-checks. He’d had to resist the urge to leave his son at the doorsteps of Potter’s love shack as it were, then and there, and see how _he_ liked parenting then. Scorpius had continued to relieve the pressure in his bowels throughout the night, at the reception desk, at the pharmacy, and at the door to their little shack, while their neighbor inquired over his health.

The smiling face next morning, that looked at him when he’d muttered the name while macerating some berries and fruits for their breakfast, had taken away the sting of hot embarrassment, and replaced it with a tinge of laughter.

It becomes slightly hard to say goodbye to the depleting place he’s spent so much of himself and discovered so much of Scorpius in, behind them. It’s not the same now that all of Scorpius’s artwork is packed away, his drawing desk that had replaced the sofa, his cot long gone to be replaced with a bed they had to shrink everyday, Scorpius’s sticky handprint, which no amount of magic had managed to scrub away, but a fresh coat of paint had hidden. Little dents here and there, only memories, really, and Draco finally closes the door. He hands the key over to the new bar owners, crouches next to his son to wave at the place together, and watches as the men with the plastic yellow hats walk in to start measuring the place for plans.

Once they’re in a secure enough place, Draco produces the little necklace that will act as their Portkey and activates it with a press. The tug and pull lasts mere seconds before they’re at their new home, and Scorpius lets go to run the length of the new space. The Portkey will always take them home, and Draco stashes it for later. He’d made it especially for Scorpius, who was starting Muggle preschool that year, just in case of emergencies. For now, he just unpacks.

######

The Ministry was finally getting to the last of the heavy hitting files, political promises not kept, bribes not met, and favors no longer held. Harry looked at the file dropped on his desk and sighed. He’d hoped it wouldn’t be another person he’d gone to school with. Not because he particularly cared, on the days he actually recalled them going to Hogwarts with him, and having breathed in the same vicinity, but because _they_ seemed to. It got incredibly awkward when they tried that card, and now Nott’s family had finally depleted all their connections at the Ministry, and their file had spilled open on his desk. Everyone knew whose door he’d be knocking once the information had been skimmed, and it left a bad taste in his mouth when he thought of who would be squinting at him behind it.

He’d been adamantly avoiding the Manor, ever since Dobby. The assignments had always insured someone else would be available to investigate, while Harry plowed and proved himself in the field, gaining rank. But now that he was promoted? It wasn’t an excuse anymore. Which is why, after all his griping, he is absolutely _livid_ when he gets there and can’t find anyone.

***

Draco was slowly adjusting to the routine of having both him and Scorpius out of the new house. It took a matter of weeks to develop a routine, not because he was particularly good at them, but Scorpius’s schedule trumped his, and if he dragged a breath longer than 5 seconds, the boy was upon him about the proper way to breathe and _daddy you know iss._ They were still working on ‘th’ sounds. The bundle of energy darted ahead, breaking speed limits of speech and showing Draco this _shtamp_ and that _shtamp_ and talking about Chloe, Jamie, Dee, Sarah, Mike and Ehab. His Fwiends. He catches himself on the pronunciation and groans.

He wishes he knew more people than the Muggles at work, and their conversations that inevitably lead to the topic of kids, single parenthood in his case and the solemn looks of sadness directed at Draco, because of his vanishing wife, the one that hadn’t bothered to stick around for the wee little thing.

He’d done the odd jobs here and there, trying to fit into this new world he’d ended up raising Scorpius in. Including, but not limited to being a mixologist at the old-school bar. Another quaint thing he’d learned to say. Who knew all that tinkering with potions would lead somewhere? He’d gotten babysitters that way. Not that it hadn’t taken months and a leap of faith to trust those filt-, well some words he hadn’t yet managed to unlearn. There had been a café somewhere in a mall, next to gigantic indoor playground, there’d been a toddler art center, a short stint at the library.

It hadn’t been about money, it had been about having decent fresh meals, giving Scorpius some social interaction that wasn’t reduced to just him, about letting him experience if not a life of affluence, then wealth of life. Something he wouldn’t have been able to do in the Manor anyways, not in these times. Sins of the father and the forefather in his case. He sees Scorpius lick the colorful drawing of a happy face on his hand and vows to have a word with the school. Maybe he’d donate stickers.

It takes hours of persuasion, and promises of daddy putting the _shtamp_ back on his hand after his nap, that gets the fiend into the bath. Draco piles the boats and the floats, vrooms with the train, quacks with the ducky, kisses the little closed eyelids once the shampoo is rinsed off. He watches Scorpius yawn as he towels him dry, thanking Merlin for small concessions and the preschool for exhausting him into a compliant baby boy.

He goes downstairs to look over receipts from the pharmacy and to learn what the rest of the pills do, when he catches a shadow at the door. He’s not stupid. His parents had heard about the Nott family’s files being waved at the Aurors in exchange for more of the family’s wealth to support the newest political campaign, and they’d declined. It’s why his parents were settling their oldest acquaintances somewhere a little more discrete than London. He was hoping for a little more time though and a little fucking heads up from his own connection at the Ministry. Parkinson wouldn’t be getting any pedicures paid out of his pockets anytime soon, the bloody useless wench.

He made sure the chain was on, and opened the door a crack, before the knocking would commence and rattle the modern structure into collapsing. He was sure the walls were made of paper, and was too afraid of leaning on them himself. Not without finding a proper re-enforcement charm anyways. The hands come into view first, scarred with ineligible lines and Draco has to stop himself from fucking shaking apart and pulling at the seams of his own body when Potter’s profile meets his.

“Malfoy.”

Merlin he’d never wanted to hear that name come out of that person ever again. He was about to say something, to ask what business brought Potter to his humblest of abodes and too bad he wasn’t expecting guests or he’d have rented house-elves. Because, surely Potter knew, all the fucking house-elves in the Manor had been seized, and apparently freed by a group of hooligans under the directive of SPEW. A little bit of magic manipulation and all of the fucking Malfoy clean laundry. It catches in his throat and his eyes grow wide with the horrible thought that, Potter _knew_. Merlin’s fucking balls, Potter _knew_ and was coming to take his son away.

He closes the door in his face.

He wonders if Potter will rage and yell and bring the house down on their fucking heads and kill them anyway, but rationalizes that Potter would want an explanation first, he was that sort of chap. He flicks his wand, and crayons hide themselves, pictures roll up, toys duck under the sofa, raincoats and boots, shoes and mittens salute and wiggle as they climb the stairs.

The chain slides away and he opens the door to Potter’s boiling face and conjures a smirk. “Funny little contraption, can’t seem to open the door without shutting it first.”

Potter pushes his way inside, and Draco grips the wooden frame of the door so hard that he feels the indentations he leaves behind. Definitely needs to be re-enforced.

“Where the bloody hell is he?”

He feels faint at the words and tries to push the question out from somewhere in his chest, because his mouth is too dry and cottony to form anything other than a plea.

“Who?”

“You know who!”

“I thought you killed him? I certainly wouldn’t be hiding the Dark Lord under my bed Potter, talk some sense.” He’s not sure where the banter comes from, because he’s near hysterical with fear and denial.

“Don’t you fucking get smart with me Malfoy. Your back-stabbing cowardly father. I need him to sell out more of his friends.”

And just like that Draco’s nerves are icy calm. A single brow arches, his demeanor relaxes and unfolds with grace as he makes a show for Potter, almost draping himself over the sturdy, but comfortable sofa.

“I assume, because you’ve taken the trouble of a day’s trip to Muggle London, that he’s not at the Manor?”

Potter’s eyes are hard points, staring right into his, but Draco’s relief is so astronomical, that no amount of threatening, no amount of immature name-calling, could faze him. Age and a stubborn child with those same piercing eyes, had taught him the meaning of bravado. Except he knew Potter was crazy enough to back it up. Come to think of it, he might actually need to ask if Potter’s family had a history of psychological issues. He frowned, and not purely for effect either.

“No points for Slytherin, for stating the fucking obvious.”

“Well, no points for Gryffindor either, because he’s not here. Especially since you’ve failed to notice the lack of his trace in the house.”

He watches as it dawns on Potter that he could have basically preformed an elementary level spell to test for magical signals, and the rush of blood that seems to climb from his neck onwards is fascinating.

“Listen to me you miserable wretch, it’s not just Luscious whose services belong to the Ministry, and if he’s not here, you’ll do just as nicely. I seem to recall backstabbing as a requirement for scum.” The words are barked at him, and suddenly, Draco doesn’t feel like playing nice anymore.

“No. You’ll listen to me _Potter_. It’s over, we’ve served our purpose to the Ministry, and you can’t hold me, or my family on a leash forever. We’ve been ostracized by our peers, and we’ve certainly made no friends with your righteous, information demanding, lazy friends. So you’re right Potter. If I don’t want to be scum anymore, maybe I need to stop selling out my ‘friends’, starting with now.”

He’s quite content to watch Potter explode like a purple balloon after that. Definitely anger management issues, he’ll have to watch for early signs in Scorpius. Every moment of Potter’s screaming fit, his jabbing fingers, is a cool chilling thought of _yes I made the right choice, this is proof. Potter is completely unfit to raise anything other than his fist in anger._

“Daddy?”

Draco’s heart stutters to a stop, and before he can think of anything to say to Potter, to calm him the fuck down, he rushes to pick up his crying son. He turns to face Potter who has grown incredibly quiet now, and it’s not out of a desire for confrontation. He needs to make sure how much Potter has seen, how much he can recognize, and this is the only position where he can hide his son’s beautiful features from Potter’s roaming, analyzing eyes.

Scorpius is whimpering about a lamp upstairs exploding, about being afraid, in his little voice, in his mispronounced mumble and Draco shushes him, wipes the tears, and calls a toy forward, to hand off to his son, and watch him cuddle it between them.

He doesn’t want to look at Potter while he does this, while he steals more time with their son and Potter stands there oblivious to anything save the guilt of his erratic magic smashing a lamp upstairs. He curses himself for not putting the wards on the stairs back up, but he’d been in a hurry, he hadn’t been expecting company. He hadn’t thought.

“Jesus Malfoy I’m sorry. I-I didn’t think…is he alright?”

His tongue is heavy and thick in his mouth, barely pausing between reassuring the bundle in his arms that everything will be alright because daddy is here, and trying to think rationally on how to get Potter to leave, to forget he’d ever seen their son.

“You should go Potter.”

“Look, I’m really sorry. It’s been one of those days and I…look if you know anything about Nott. No, look, never mind. I’ll get someone on it.”

The door clicks after Potter leaves in almost an embarrassed dash, and Draco’s not sure he’s hugging the 4 year old to his chest to comfort him, or to comfort himself.

Scorpius settles on the sofa, eyelashes stuck with the remnants of tears. He reactivates the wards, and hears the shuffle of broken glass, ringing as they clink together. He sits at the kitchen table, and feels all of 17 again, and when he cries, curls onto himself, he’s right there on that bathroom floor, only this time, his possible losses are painfully bigger.

When he’s dried up, he stumbles to the sofa, holds his son securely to his chest and vows that he won’t let anything happen to him. For this first time since he’d stopped nursing him, he ignores the books and snuggles up with his son in the small bed.

Nap over, Scorpius wakes him up, and scolds him about invading the bed, and he gives his son a pitiful look and fake-cries about daddy having nightmares too and being scared. When Scorpius pats his head, Draco feels almost normal again. They have pancakes for dinner, and this one rule Scorpius doesn’t admonish him for.

They were going to be fine. He would make sure of that.

***

It rankles. All through the week, and well into the next, Harry feels like the biggest asshole about what happened that day at Malfoy’s house. It had really started at the Manor, images, flashes of escaping, of Hermione’s agonized screams, Ron fighting to get back to her, and Dobby. Dobby never making the journey back safely. He was building a momentum of rage the more he circled the Manor. His friends scarred, others dead, and Luscious roaming free, dangling little bits of information in front of the Ministry and enjoying dinners and parties and company that by all rights, Sirius, Lupin, and any number of others should have been enjoying instead.

It got worse when he couldn’t find anyone, and an inquiry back in the office lead to a dead-end. He remembered rumors about the youngest Malfoy living away from home, and that became his new purpose. Nights in the inadequate archives finally gave him a clue, one that he couldn’t believe he was entertaining, let alone believing. The record of owl deliveries wasn’t fake however, and the one entry titled DM, with that scrawl that he recognized from letters of harassment wasn’t something he was likely to forget.

The bar looked odd, with one side boarded and heavy machinery beeping behind wooden partitions. The bar owners recognized the name of the previous tenant, but they didn’t know where he’d moved to. They led him to another woman, the previous bar owner’s daughter, who was even older than Mrs. Weasley, and got him thinking of how old the bar owner had been. She offered him tea, only after confirming for the millionth time that he knew Draco, though she seemed to watch his expression as he mashed lies and truths about going to school with him. She kept talking about the poor wee thing, and Harry had to fight not to roll his eyes. There was nothing wee or poor about Malfoy, unless he was living in central London as a ferret. She gave him a vague enough address, that told him as much about how trustworthy she thought he was, and he thanked her for her time.

He scouted her place the entire night, waiting for her to call Malfoy, to send him a letter, to do something, but she never did. He caught an eye-full trying to peak through the second-floor window and only had time for a muffling charm when he ended up falling into the bushes and getting stabbed in the ass by sharp twigs. When he finally went around to check the address she’d given him, the police station seems to mock his progress and simplicity. The irony wasn’t lost on him either.

It took a bit of work, something to change his pitch, hours of practice in front of a mirror mimicking the git’s fancy accent and tone before he was ready. It hadn’t exactly been fun searching and scouring dumpsters and bins all across the city with a wild variation of tracking charms. He was near shocked when he’d realized Malfoy had a phone line installed at all, that he was almost skeptical. But he smelled like crap at that point, and had been wading through crap, and it was the best shot he’d had. Besides, that was the second suit in as many days he’d ruined looking for Malfoy and he wasn’t going back without anything to show for it.

When the bored voice finally answered on the other line, and Harry grumbled into the phone box, he hadn’t needed to fake his displeasure. He complained about the service not working, about needing things done and not having a phone line to get them done with, and just which address were they even installing this service at? The guy asked for his subscription number and phone line, and Harry quoted directly from the wilted paper, and listened with rapt attention as he was given the new address to confirm. He confirmed, told them he’d call again if it didn’t work the next day, otherwise, to assume it had, thank you and goodbye. He whooped around in the small box, and the man waiting irritably outside shoved his way in as Harry left. He was in such a good mood, that he didn’t even hex the man.

His good mood lasted all of 5 seconds the next morning when he was faced with bloody fucking suburbia. The almost uniform houses run a haphazard numbering system that claims house 64 is within its rights standing next to house 18. He’d spent the morning looping around the entire neighborhood, and decided to go for a sky view. He figured the biggest place would house the biggest ego, a.k.a Malfoy, but none of the big houses had panned out. He’d gone for lunch, some fish a chips shop a few blocks away, and managed to get malt vinegar on his last pair of clean pants. The cup of mushy peas thankfully, avoided his loafers when they decided to splat all over the floor. It hadn’t, however, avoided the soles, and his slip under the metallic, rickety table was the subject of several guffaws and hands held out to help.

So when he’d found house 5, hiding behind hedges and bowing stalks of blooming hydrangeas, he was less than keen on being civil, to anyone, let alone Malfoy.

His lack of professionalism wasn’t the only thing that rankled though. Malfoy has a child. Has a son actually, and Harry feels the vicissitudes of envy ripple across his skin. They’d been trying, and day by day his obsession with having a family, and the lack of results had driven her farther and farther away. He’d stopped pushing, and Ginny had stopped being cagey about the possibility of either of them lacking fertility, or the compatibility to conceive together. It took months to heal the fall-out and contain the damage through therapy. Silly to think he’d once thought he’d die and never have children, even sillier to still be alive and not be able to. He wonders whatever happened to that vial of preservation liquid, and cringes when he recalls his desperation to leave a piece of himself behind. He’d almost told Ron, just in case his mate survived and Harry didn’t. He’s not sure now how Ginny would have received his gift of a vial of preserved sperm, but he’d heard of Muggle sperm banks, and that had been the closest thing he could try. It had sounded romantic, and he was still reeling from what lay ahead, the almost certainty in Dumbledore’s manner and words, about the possibility of his death, while the mirror of Erised played a happy scene of family for him. He sighs, Ginny’s anti-bodies would have crushed the frozen wrigglers anyway.

It’s with a start that he realizes that Pansy works in the department of records. He tries to be coy, but she call his bluff, and refuses to divulge any type of information on where to locate birth records without a formal, written, and approved request. He doesn’t press, and doesn’t ask about Malfoy directly. He tells himself that he doesn’t want the git to get any satisfaction from knowing Harry’s interested.

When Cathy, or was it Kate? Oh, maybe it was Pamela, he wasn’t sure, sneaks him into the section and gets him to sign something for her, she closes the door and he’s awash in darkness. It’s after hours, and this, his meddling isn’t being counted as overtime. He spares a thought for Ginny, sending his suits to be salvaged after his destructive week and knows she won’t understand this re-emerging obsession with bloody Malfoy, and Merlin, not about kids. Sometimes their stark differences stood out so sharply, that neither could avoid a barbed remark about the other. She had siblings growing up, parents and hell, an entire clan of Weasley’s for company. He was the single descendent of a line that was pretty much extinct.

The records yield nothing. There is no record of Draco’s marriage, no record of Draco’s son registered anywhere, in fact, the book keeping was so careful he is sure it had never existed. Then again, he isn’t even sure how old the boy is. He’s older than Ron and Hermione’s eldest, but that might be his height, but even so. He is uneasy with what his thoughts are suggesting, but surely none of them had the time to go out in the world and procreate during the war? Maybe Malfoy had had the same ideas as Harry about extending the family line? Hadn’t he had this exact same thought during 6th year? He vaguely remembers being teased about his obsession with Malfoy and someone in the common room misunderstanding who this obsession is about and making an offhand comment about how if Harry wanted to trap that person, maybe he should give them a bun in the oven. He’d laughed, and for one crazy moment, fueled with guilt about the bathroom incident, the idea that Malfoy, with his scarred body having to turn to Harry for family, was oddly pleasing. He wasn’t an unattractive git.

But the reality was, that he lives in Muggle London even though he hated Muggles, he has a child who’s not registered in the Ministry. And Potter’s mouth quirks with the possibility of Malfoy knocking up a Muggle, because he can’t get a witch. Luscious would have a field day no doubt, and if nothing else, that would have driven Bellatrix to an early grave, if she hadn’t, you know, been dead already. Realization downs on Harry and he rushes to dust himself off and up. Why he hadn’t thought of it before he isn’t sure, but his steps take him to Grimmauld Place, and the lonely tapestry that still glinted with golden threads, where names and dates had stitched themselves. The silence that descends after the revelation of Draco’s name, isn’t as deafening as the noise that rattles inside Harry’s head. He reads the name again, and again laughs at something Sirius had once said, that his cousins stayed on the family tree because they married respectable pure-bloods, and there, sat the last of the Potters, surely not a pure-blood, not entirely, but there was no one left to blast his name off the family tree now, was there?

The double thread shines brightly under Scorpius Malfoy-Potter, 1997.

***

Draco feels it in the pit of his stomach, a prediction that something horrible is about to happen. He wishes he had more time, but the only thing he has is a sense of desperation that he knows had breached the realm of madness. He looks onto Scorpius’s sleeping face, content, unaware that they are on the brink of war, and whatever happens, Draco isn’t going to lose. He fingers the little necklace he’d take to dressing his son in, ever since Potter had shown up on their doorstep. _If you see that man, you press it. It’ll take you home, and daddy will be there for hugs and kisses._ The vibrant emeralds, framed by eyebrows so light, even knotted, barely visible.

The house rattles, and Draco casts a bubble. He descends the stairs to face the brewing storm of four years of silence.

When he catches sight of Potter, it’s through the wreckage of his front door, after all, the wards recognized half his blood, obviously they’d be much weaker, he’d always known it was a possibility. When Potter yells _where?_ Draco doesn’t pretend no to understand the why and the who.

“Asleep.”

“I want to see him.”

He leans against the wall, still on the stair steps, and looks down at Potter. He knows he has to be cautious, but he also needs to be firm. “He’s asleep Potter, I don’t want him having another fright.”

“I-”

“The front door of this house is in tatters. You might want to think carefully about you say next.”

The door mending itself is a sight to behold, but even more, it makes Draco’s throat dry, because he can clearly see that Potter hasn’t touched his wand towards it, nor is he uttering anything to invoke wandless magic.

“If you’d take a seat on the sofa, I..you must have questions. We’ll talk.”

He watches Potter maneuver towards the sofa and for a moment, it feels like everything is going to be alright. He was listening to reason, he wasn’t tearing up the house and dueling with Draco over who gets to keep Scorpius.

“Were you pregnant?”

He’s not sure why Potter wants to know, other than, he himself would have asked the same question, were their positions reversed. It still isn’t a topic he wants to discuss though, so he just nods. Before Potter could ask _how_ and Draco knows he’s going to, he offers up the explanation, when he can stomach announcing it.

“It was a potion, meant to create vessels. I miscalculated with an ingredient. Yours.”

“So you robbed my spunk and got yourself knocked up?”

“Hardly. I’d made two portions of my own potion, but your sloppy labeling work sitting amongst them made it difficult to determine which was which. Besides, what sort of sane human being preserves their own seed? What the bloody fuck were you planning to do?”

“Not give you a child that’s for sure!”

“I meant, when Slughorn found your charming sample of protein and told McGonagall all about it?”

Potter’s face drained of all color, as realization finally set in, that Slughorn surely would have checked the sample and informed the head of his house of any…

“What were you planning with the potion then, if you really hadn’t known about, um, what was in it.”

He knows that Potter caught the way his body stiffened at the question, but he knew he couldn’t exactly tell him either. It was still a trump card.

“It was supposed to restore some essence of health, not install actual essence in the body.”

“So you could kill Dumbledore.” The chill that follows his words raise the hackles on Draco’s neck.

“So I could save my family. That’s something you aren’t quite familiar with Potter, are you? Not letting your family down.”

Draco realizes it’s the wrong thing to say, seconds after the contents of the kitchen cabinet explode inside.

The smile that decorates his face is like Draco’s worst unfolding nightmare, but his own madness is in his voice, coursing through his veins, and he’s not going to take anything back, especially not the words.

“Maybe I didn’t before, but it’s something I’ll have to do for my son.”

The threat doesn’t faze him, if Potter wants to intimidate him, there’s a long line of others he’ll need to surpass first. “For a sperm donor, you sure act like you’re entitled.”

“Oh but I am Malfoy.”

The malicious smile is half manic, half amused and Draco’s throat dries. “You can’t take my son away from me Potter. You have no right.”

“I’m sure I could make a case for theft of DNA, ex-Death Eater threatens Auror Potter’s son’s welfare. How old is he now? Four years old thereabouts, that’s four years you’ve kidnapped him, and endangering the welfare of a child, because, of course, you’ve kept him at the Manor where Voldemort had access to him. Yes, good job Malfoy, your role ends now.”

“Fuck you Potter, _fuck you_ if you think anyone is going to believe that pile of shit you just spun, _fuck you_ for thinking I’d ever hurt Scorpius, and _fuck you_ for acting high and mighty when you have no fucking bloody idea what you’ve put us both through.”

“How bloody fucking dare _you_! You have a son, _my son_! And it never occurs to you I’d want to know?? That I’d want to be part of his life! Well I’m bloody taking him with me because you just _fucking_ proved that you’re no fit to be a parent. Fucking Malfoys!”

He’s not sure when they managed to stand up, but suddenly, it makes perfect sense. He dashes towards the stairs, and Potter is on his heels. He has the advantage, he’s baby-proofed this house and has maneuvered around it several times, and jumps over the lowest point of the banister, and barely has time to watch Potter fumble with the small door at the end of the stairs. Magic doesn’t occur to him as he runs the length of the steps, but Potter grabs his ankle to slow him down, and he aims a kick at his face. His left ankle suddenly burns, but he barely pays attention to it, his focus on one thing only.

He reaches the room a split second before Potter can walk in and knows it’s come to _that_ , the bubble is wrapped in a blanket, and all he does is reach for it, and Apparate.

***

There’s snow. His foot sinks into thick inches of icy cold that just as quickly melts and clings. The mansion isn’t exactly the Manor, but the black slabs of stone shine like glinting glass, and it does nothing but make the place look even more sinister. He knows it’s not just that though, feels the thrum of trapped power as it beckons him forward, whispering, floating and caressing his face when he shudders.

The building spoke of a different time, a different lifetime entirely, and Draco wonders whether it was to the Brouiller’s tastes, or It’s. He’s barely inside the all-consuming darkness, when faint lights bloom across the walls. He carries his bundle, shivering the more the familiar magic washes over him, the more it prods and sneers and swallows the objections, the alarm in his mind.

That, It wouldn’t hurt Scorpius, is the only chant in his head. He remembers the threatening words, like the mental touch, careful and clear as if no time had passed. _We can stand to wait your months of agony._ He’ll promise a child, he’ll promise several if needed, as long as his child is safe. He was already a carrying vessel, it was never something that could be reversed, not without the knowledge that It has. And It wanted a family more than anything, had made sure to sever the membrane, and hadn’t harmed the small seed growing inside him. He knows it would have been easy to snuff the life out, to force Draco’s body to purge and start over, but It hadn’t, and Draco clings to this knowledge for assurance.

His ankle still burns, and there’s a distinct sound of heavy steps, thudding on the marble floor. He looks at his ankle and sees the blue string. Potter was tracking him. Fucking basic Auror training techniques. He runs.

He can tell he’s getting closer because visions dance across his path, ghosts of a last supper set to flames while the absentees were hunted down elsewhere. They follow him, clear a path and freeze at a certain point, fading like Myrtle had, but whether in freight or lack of strength, he doesn’t know. He can tell Potter is gaining on him, and the dark staircase is the perfect way to lose him, so he takes the plunge into the abyss, heedless of the ghosts’ reluctance to follow.

It’s so incredibly dark, that the smallest outline of light catches his eye. It’s a vibrant fiery red, and where it casts a faint glow, he can tell it’s the same type of magic that cast the illusion of bricks, where none had been. He plunges his hand through, and slips inside the fake wall, into an icy cold chamber.

There are dozens of pegs adorning the wall, the room where all the handkerchiefs were hung. He knows this because the massive dining table sits at the center, and all around it are brittle bones and skulls, in mounds around the chairs. There’s no mistaking the faded blots on the tablecloth either.

He binds Scorpius to his body with a spell, and begins his search. His time is limited, but the voices and the hoarse whispers are ever helpful, and when a glint of tarnished gold presents itself, he knows he’s found the body of the stowaway. The tattered and flimsy knit surrounding the body had clearly been of quality, and the broach that held it together was that of an intricate horn, spikes forming bumps along its edges. The image is vivid in his mind, but the knowledge that it’s one more piece of claiming jewelry makes him ill. He pulls the disintegrating robe apart, and it falls before him, as if it were the exact same one he’d left those years ago at Hogwarts. The thread of dragon hide is looped much loosely, and he turns off his thoughts as he begins to unravel it.

He sets it on the table, and pricks his thumb on the nearest protruding rib bone, and watches as the handkerchief begins to flutter. His breath comes out in puffs, his sight dims and only the knowledge of the protective bubble not being entirely indestructible if he loses consciousness keeps him upright. There’s a sound of howling, sudden gusts of wind whip around him and he watches in fascination as the bones turn to dust. He only registers the horrified face of Potter, when he hears the audible gasp.

Potter casts a Patronuis, and if the full body shiver hadn’t completely taken over him, he’d be able to laugh at the foolishness of Potter. He doesn’t close his eyes, even afraid to blink, because the voice is so near and his stalling for time tells him something.

The look in Potter’s eyes is enough of a sign, and tendrils of smoke appear from seemingly thin air, and begin to wrap around Potter’s body. Potter who is cursing and yelling spells and struggling against the powerful hold It has over him. It is still weak, the house absorbing the majority of It’s strength, and the tussle with Potter draining the rest. The feeling of relief from the danger of losing Scorpius is so faint though, in the face of what he’s actually done, what he’s committing to doing, that Draco utters the healing charm before he can change his mind. His thumb heals, and the smoke surrounding Potter ripples, almost as if confused.

He doesn’t close his eyes, he looks at Scorpius and bites his lips almost to the point of bleeding, before he tackles the handkerchief once more, and attempts to bind it with the dragon hide again. It’s no small feat, as the smoke abandons Potter and shoots for him, clinging and climbing, trying to get into his mouth and nostrils, his lungs. His eyes sting, and his fingers tremble, even with the loop complete, a knot finally forming as the smoke scorches his throat. It starts to recede, but the entire structure of the mansion begins to break, bricks coming loose, cracks in the stones, debris falling as if in warning.

Potter is still crouched where the tendrils of smoke had flung him, and Draco runs towards him, scanning as he does for their exit, feeling his panic rise when he can’t locate it. He clutches Scorpius and hates himself, hates his weakness and his self-righteousness when he’d decided he’d never have to worry about Potter coming after them, about finding out and demanding to see his son. Potter coughs, and Draco slips Scorpius into his arms, the bubble pops.

“I never meant for this to happen Potter. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His mind reels with the rest, a litany of _I’m sorry I never told you, I’m sorry we’re all going to die because of me, I’m sorry you never had the chance to experience the gift you’ve managed to give me without knowing. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep him safe in the end._

“I tried to Apparate, into the mansion, and then the room, but the wards wouldn’t let me.” He strokes Scorpius’s pale cheeks, looks up at Draco, determined, not resigned. “There has to be a way.”

“There is.” He looks back at the table, where the handkerchief shakes, some part of It struggling to get out, to loosen the cord.

“No. I’ve seen that thing. It’s not an option.”

“It is, if you leave with Scorpius, and I stay here.”

“That’s not an option! I can’t just bloody leave you here!”

“There’s nothing to talk about Potter, I put him, _both_ of you in danger. I’m not fit to be his father, maybe you were right all along.” The tears sting worse than the smoke, and Merlin he’s been crying nonstop again, regressing back into a teenager, as if no lessons had been learnt along the way. Not being able to see his baby would serve him right. But even as he tells himself so, his knuckles are bloodless in their desperate clutch around Scorpius’s blanket, and he watches the unrest in his sleep. He tries to smooth the little lines forming between the delicate eyebrows, and when Scorpius sighs, he feels his heart break.

He attempts to stand up, the shaking indicative of the mansion falling apart around them, while the feeding chamber holds on as the core, the center of power. He’s yanked back by Potter, who merely shakes his head. “Don’t. Please. I-I wouldn’t know what to tell him.”

Draco can’t swallow, and the lump grows against all odds as tears trickle down his face. Potter adjusts Scorpius against him, and Draco leans in.

He hears the faint clink of the chain and nearly falls on top of Potter in his haste. “The locket! Fucking hell, Potter grab onto the chain quick!”

To his credit, Draco notes that Potter doesn’t ask before his fingers are on the round, light locket lying against Scorpius’s chest. Draco presses like he means to bend it in half, and his prayer is lost in the swirl of the tug and pull, right as a slab from the roof falls where they’d lain.

***

Scorpius takes up a corner on the sofa bed. Draco checks him for the millionth time, and then tends to his wounds, ripped clothing and the cuts he hadn’t realized he’d sustained while sifting through the bones. He’s still lightheaded from the blood loss, but it’s nothing to how raw his esophagus is from inhaling all that smoke. He’s already helped Potter with an advanced spell or two, domestic stuff really, before he’d gone about finding something for his throat.

He can still see Potter from the sofa bed, trying, and so far failing, to put the kitchenware back to normal. He’s not exactly thrilled that Potter’s anger has managed to grind all his plates and bowls into fine porcelain dust, but he’d much prefer for Potter to sit down so they could talk about what happened, and come to a decision, or two. Potter had asked about Scorpius’s unusual slumber, and wondered why Draco wasn’t freaking out that despite all of the wreckage and falling stones, he hadn’t even stirred in his sleep. It hadn’t been worth it to lie, so he told Potter about the Muggle formula that helped kids sleep on airplanes, which he’d gotten for Scorpius. He was about to scoff and say it was completely safe, when the memories of the night assaulted him.

When he opened his eyes next though, he was curled against Scorpius on the sofa bed, covered by the throw cover, and no Potter in sight.

***

He stews on the knowledge of that night, the guilt of how far he’s disregarded his son’s safety and Potter’s, out of a complete refusal to compromise. He stews for days, that turn into a fortnight, and then culminate into a month. There’s absolutely no sign or peep from Potter. It makes him uneasy because he’s seen the man’s face, seen him melt while looking at the slumbering figure of his son, and knows Potter will never be able to keep away. It makes no sense that he hasn’t done anything yet, and so he must have. Except, there’s no word from the Ministry, no one’s knocking on his corner of privacy demanding he release the chosen one’s son, and no guards dragging him to Azkaban.

He gives Potter the benefit of the doubt, but arranges what paperwork is needed to hand over the house for sale, and what documents are needed to whisk his son away to a different continent. Just in case. Am owl hoots as it delivers a deed for the purchase of a house, untraceable, just as requested.

The trip to the bank to leave it there for safe-keeping is wrought with more anxiety than necessary, and only because he suddenly feels exposed in the light of day, in the bustling shopping streets and the large crowds swallowing the streets.

When Potter does show up, he’s flanked by several others. Draco notes those he recognizes, and some of the chill that went up his spine thaws when he realizes the mud-, er, Granger and Weasley aren’t part of the entourage.

“Auror Potter has come to us with a most interesting story Mr. Malfoy. Bearing in mind his unorthodox request in relation to it, we are here, under the orders of the minister himself, to validate this claim.”

He keeps mum, and voids looking at Potter no matter what. “Would you like some tea?”

They nod, and it’s disarming, because who would take tea at a time like this? At the hour of investigation, from, as Potter has so eloquently put it, an Ex-Death Eater, if such a thing were to ever exist. It gives him time though, to pass a signal to his parents, and make sure someone will be contacted, in case he doesn’t make it to Scorpius’s school. He can tell Potter is looking at him, eyes planted on his back, and he makes his movements as natural as possible.

He sets the tray in front of them, lounges on the sofa he’d so recently slept on with his son, and fakes detachment. That is, until the questions begin.

“On the night of October the 11th, where were you?”

The question, _what year are we talking about_ isn’t voiced, and it’s only because he notes that today is the 11 th as well, that understanding dawns on him.

“I was in the south of Switzerland, at an old mansion, prior to then, I was at home, and after as well.”

“Now, Auror Potter claims you were both investigating a magical being, rumored to have dwelt into the vicinity of the mansion. If you could shed some light on this, please.”

He pours the tea, steeped enough now, and fills their cups. Potter declines, and Draco wants to wring his neck, because now he can’t hope Potter chokes on his tea.

“I believe, as Auror Potter has told you, the mansion is possessed? If not, and these are merely semantics, that this is why the Brouiller mansion is, or was, of interest to him.” He remembers the small details of the book, the very fine print, and he can see it in his mind’s eye, rushing to supply him with an escape. “As the nature of the handkerchief is no doubt familiar to the Ministry, further research has not been done on what exactly looms behind its existence, so I cannot claim to know. Auror Potter approached me since I had knowledge of where two existed, beyond the vault. I hope he mentioned two and not one? Again, semantics. I hear Aurors like to keep some knowledge hidden under their robes.”

There is a shuffle of feet, and someone coughs, but Draco doesn’t pay them mind. “I’m sure the Ministry’s capable staff has already located the one at Hogwarts.” He lets it dangle there, fresh evidence, and hopes Potter is squirming in his seat, as all eyes are on him instead.

“I’m sorry to say we were ill prepared going in, and were not able to retrieve the item in question, at which point we used a Portkey to transport us back to London. I assume the mansion is in rubbles at the moment?”

One particularly pissed off professor-type nods his head, and Draco has to quell a smirk. Collections, grubby greedy lot, the same who’d come to the Manor fingering all manners of furniture and hoping to confiscate. He is blue in the face, and Draco can see the moment he finds a point to contest because the corners of his mouth lift.

“This Portkey, now excuse me Mr. Malfoy, but this Portkey, was it authorized?”

“Yes.”

The man splutters and before he can begin to question the matter any further, Draco stands up to retrieve something from the little drawer in the kitchen, and produces the slip to prove it.

“I’m aware the intent of use listed is of no relation to the circumstances of its usage on the night in question, but it served the same purpose, which I’m sure the Ministry would approve.”

“Well?”

The smugness in Potter’s voice grates on his nerves, but he supposes he ought to be grateful the topic they are discussing isn’t how Draco almost got rid of Potter by unleashing a lawful being that would have managed to deplete the world’s population, as It and It’s spawn would have no doubt managed to do.

The nods seemed to travel across the group, save for Grabby Grubby Grumpy, who, Draco notes, is about to pop a vessel.

“Then we can proceed.”

A weight drops into his stomach at these words and breathing becomes a difficult task. All Draco can think at this point, is that it never fucking ends.

Then he sees the piece of parchment with the official Ministry seal, headed by his family name. He scans if for mention of Scorpius but nothing is there.

“For your family’s continued support of the Ministry and its relevant branches and departments, we here by reinstate some of the previously withheld privileges related to the Malfoys’ war effort. This is effective immediately, and not subject to condition. In the matter of certain possessions, you may submit a list, and the Ministry, in cooperation with Mr. Grouch here, will work on releasing these not deemed dangerous to the public.”

His head bobbles with understanding, and there’s not much that he can say since an astounding spell of speechlessness takes over.

“Then it would seem we are done here. Thank you for bringing the matter to our attention Auror Potter. Good day Mr. Malfoy.”

They leave, but Potter lingers at the door, and Draco can’t fault him for casting longing looks towards the stairs. He sighs.

“If you’d wait inside Potter, I’ll be just a moment.”

He doesn’t look back to see if Potter follows him in, but he heads towards the kitchen, and sends another signal. He knows his parents will Floo him later to ask what is going on, so he abstains from mentioning that the vaults are free, business is in bloom, and was he still allowed the previous 3 years’ allowances since he technically hadn’t received them?

“So, Potter, to what do I owe the pleasure of your little conspiracy, and sudden favor.”

“Look, I wanted to apologize about last time.”

“The way I see it, I owe you the apologies, but I’ll indulge if you must.”

“I think we can agree that if I hadn’t started threatening, none of what happened that night, would have happened. Unless you intended to get us all eaten in that dining hall, in which case I’m not sure what to tell you Malfoy.”

“I’m correct in assuming you’ve no clue what you saw that night?” at Potter’s nod, he proceeds, “the plan was never to get eaten, in a manner of speaking, and you weren’t supposed to follow either. I’m surprised you didn’t show up here screaming bloody murder if you thought that was my plan.”

“I was going to, but I had a lot to think about. I don’t particularly like you Malfoy, but when I saw how far you’d go to protect Scorpius, it just seemed wrong to, how do I put this, fault you? Fight you? Lock you up?”

“Reassuring to know you had several options to choose from.”

“Bottom line is, I don’t think you’re a bad parent Malfoy.”

The urge to be snarky and ask if he’s just a bad wizard and human being snuffs itself. Potter was extending an olive branch of sorts, plus, he’d just handed over the vaults, insuring Draco would have even more means for planning escape, so at least part of what he was saying had to be genuine.

“I apologize too. I can’t explain why I did everything exactly the way I did, but I did do it for the sake of keeping Scorpius safe. I can honestly assure you that he was never in the presence of the Dark Lord and I made sure to keep it that way.” He’s sure that Potter’s complaint would resurface if he mentioned, _except when I was actually pregnant_ , so he decides a little bit of omission never hurt anybody.

“So. Uh, you were pregnant with Scorpius. You’re a bloke.” That question again.

“If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, the answer is no Potter.”

“I’m just wondering, is all. It’s not something you hear about every bloody day now, is it?”

“Incubating your sperm in my body is one thing Potter, showing you my genitals to satisfy your definition of bloke, is a different matter entirely.”

He doesn’t hide his grin when Potter splutters, and a lovely blush consumes his face. He’d been saving that one for years.

When Potter resurfaces, he wets his lips and looks at Draco, as though testing the waters. “Can I see him? Properly I mean.”

It’s not in his heart to tease, not with how desperate Potter looks. “He’s at the preschool now. Doesn’t let out for a few more hours. We can go pick him up then, if you’d like.”

He can’t exactly read Potter’s expression, but then again, it isn’t that hard to guess that the Weasley he’s married to isn’t part of the picture yet. Nor the wizarding world for that matter.

“I might have to head back.”

No clear affirmation, and Draco nods. He makes a show of clapping his hand, as though something dawns on him, but really, he’s been preparing for this moment, this bribe if you will, for four years. “Would you like to see some pictures?”

He’s not surprised at all when it’s almost time to pick up Scorpius, and Potter isn’t half-way done with the albums, and barely making a dent in the videos. Though those were a little harder to set up. He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready for a Muggle computer, but the camera he’s acclimated to wonderfully, if he may say so himself. A bit of magic in the charger, the focus, the zoom had done wonders.

Potter’s face as his eyes drink in all the photos are almost worth Draco’s quitting his job. Though he supposes, it hadn’t been working out quite as well as he’d hoped. Pharmaceuticals weren’t exactly potions, and his hands had been itching to brew for quite some time.

“What should he call me?”

Draco doesn’t need to think twice about that, because he already has, about all of these questions, twice and thrice and just about dozens of times. “Whatever you want him to call you Potter. Except daddy, that’s already taken.” He throws a smirk behind his back at Potter’s befuddled face, and makes the walk to the preschool.

***

The process is slow. So slow in fact, that Draco is still virtually terrified of answering Scorpius’s enthusiastic _why Hawy isn’t picking him up from pwe-school with daddy all the time. Why ish it only shometimesh_?

“He’s an Auror. They do important work and keep us all safe.” It’s like a slogan from a brochure, but it placates the child.

Not the Potter hasn’t been showing up at the oddest of times with age-inappropriate gifts. Draco almost lends him the entire library of parenting books, before he recalls that Potter would rather jump into a den of spiders and take his chances, than plan a strategy. He hands Scorpius a book, and breathes a sigh of relief when his son plops down and starts to re-read the letters again.

“Scorpius, do you like Pott-, I mean Harry?” The name feels foreign on his tongue, and he curses Potter for doing that. He’s pretty sure it was deliberate, a vindictive, petty revenge in the face of everything he hasn’t shared with Scorpius, but Draco has.

Scorpius nods enthusiastically, and Draco tries again. He swallows the insecure _do you like him more than daddy? Is he more fun?_

“Let’s have him over for a playdate tomorrow, would you like that?” He curses himself, and wonders if it would be better if Potter told him. For now, he has a lapful of happy Scorpius, wanting a playdate with _Hawy_.

He realizes Potter is completely shit at it, when birds and bees are part of his introduction. He scowls at Potter before he drags him away to give him a proper verbal lashing.

“Potter, you’re not teaching him about bloody sex, he’s only four! Are you deliberately trying to traumatize my child??”

“Piss off! I don’t see _you_ making any progress!”

 _Only because I don’t want to!_ And the truth of the matter stings. He promised Potter, he knows it’s for the best, knows it’s important to keep the peace and in the long run, Scorpius wouldn’t have to deal with it exposed from a second source.

“Sit at the bench, and unless I ask you a question, you let me handle this.” Potter looks unconvinced, and he can’t really blame him, but he knows what he’s doing, after all, it’s not like he hadn’t prepared for this either.

He plops Scorpius on his lap, facing both of them, and tickles him a little, just to get his attention. His squealing child brings nothing but warmth and love to his heart and he fights back the urge to choke, not just on emotions, but on the disbelief that something, a year so terrible, had given him such a gift.

“Remember Daryl from school? He gave you the red car with big wheels?” Scorpius nods, looking at Potter as he does.

“He comes to school with his two daddies, right? Remember they gave us a ride to the Zoo? We had fun in the Zoo, didn’t we?” Another nod, and Draco wonders if he’s overwhelming him already.

“Harry and I are like that. Like Daryl’s daddies. Guess whose daddies we are?”

“Me!”

“Yes, pumpkin. My beautiful smart boy.” He’s kissing the top of Scorpius’s head, trying to tickle him again.

“That’s why Harry comes with daddy to pick you up from school, why we have playdates with Harry. Do you like when Harry does that?”

His son’s forehead wrinkles and Draco worried about this being the first sign of trouble, but the child-rendition of the sentence his son answers with, is an entirely different type of trouble. He feels faint, how’s he going to explain _this_?

“Yes, Scorpius, that’s why your daddy and I had you. We love each other very much.”

Draco takes a moment of appreciate that Potter is still a shit liar, before he stomps the man’s foot, and turns to his son to fix the damage. “What Harry _means_ , is that we love you very much, and we want you to have a big family, now that Harry can come visit. Right _Harry_?”

He glares at Potter for good measure, hoping his eyes are communicating how much trouble he was in for even breathing without Draco’s permission when he’d explicitly told him bloody not to.

“Right.”

“Now, who wants to get some hot coca?”

***

It’s no exactly smooth sailing, but they manage to establish a civil partnership, mostly when Potter is not there and Draco doesn’t have to deal with a cranky Scorpius whose usual routine is interrupted to accommodate Potter. It doesn’t help that the oaf can’t keep an appointment to save his life and mostly arrives unannounced and gleeful when Draco gripes about it not being a good bloody time, _again_.

Scorpius asks after him though, and clings to his legs as Potter fakes flying him about the house, sneaks in treats from the wizarding world and watches as he smiles and hugs Potter tightly at the door when he makes his excuses to leave. He feels like an absolute bastard when his gut wrenches in jealousy at how well they quickly got on.

They get into a pissing fight after Potter puts Scorpius to bed, and announces he’d like to tell Ron and Hermione. Draco lists all the general reasons why that is such a bad idea, and Potter retorts with, “you just don’t want people to assume you’ve been fucked and knocked up by Harry Potter.”

So naturally, Draco leads with, “And you’re not telling Ginny Weasley so her uterus doesn’t rupture when she thinks you’re a bloody cheating poof!”

“Shut your mouth! You bloody miserable pretentious, selfish coward!”

“Oh and I suppose it’s fucking brave to Sectumsempra a pregnant man in the toilets, now is it?!”

It is obviously the wrong thing to say, _again_ , as Potter’s face drains of all blood and Draco can’t get his tongue to unstick long enough to say he was only winding Potter up. Potter though, punches him in the face.

The unspoken rule they both abide by, is no magic. Everything else becomes fair game, and Draco demonstrates that by kicking Potter in the head, right before his leg is yanked and he falls face first into the corner of the coffee table. Potter gets on his back and attempts to smash his head on the floor, but Draco pulls the trusty Argos catalogue from right under the table and whacks Potter with it. Several times for good measure. Potter still manages to survive, and emerges triumphant from within page 649 of home appliances, to jab his elbow in an especially tender spot, and Draco feels his stomach protesting the re-allocation of his internal organs. It’s completely by accident when it happens, but Draco would never confess the truth, when his knee knocks right into Potter’s face, directly to his nose.

They call a truce, and after several cans of beer and the one bottle of Firewhiskey Draco keeps hidden in the house, they’re back to being civil. Potter’s bleeding nose is numb from the ice, and Draco is too plastered to preform anything remotely close to bone re-alignment, so he tells Potter to be a man and endure until he can visit St. Mungos. His own chin is bruised and he’s sure one of his kidneys is loose and floating. He absently pats Potter’s head and shushes him when he cries. Big bloody baby.

Potter it seems, hears him and wails at the word baby. “almost killed him, my baby.” Draco pats him again, trying to follow the thread of the conversation that apparently, hadn’t ended for Potter. “Bloody oaf, you didn’t know.” He’s not sure it’s wise to add that Potter hadn’t meant to, because he’s still not quite sure about that one. That seems to work though, as Potter shuffles around until his head is on Draco’s stomach, and he blurts, “what I said before, about not judging you?”

“Fault me, fight me, lock me up.”

“Yeah, that, it’s because you reminded me of someone, what you did. Awful like what-”

“What your mother did? I get that Potter.”

Except Potter frowns at him. “No. Mrs. Weasley. Where’d you get my mum from?” Potter lifts his head then, one side of his nose stuffed with cotton balls. “Are you saying I’m Voldemort?”

“Well, who are you calling a Weasley? Same difference really.”

Potter laughs at that, “Ron might actually agree.” His head is back on Draco’s stomach and it’s clear he’s settling in for a snooze when he breathes on Draco’s belly in a yawn. Rubbing his cheek against the flat, slightly scarred skin, he blurts, “s’ppose it wouldn’t be so bad to have another baby ‘proper with you Malfoy.”

“Suppose so,” his brain is miles and miles away, and he sees a big family of perfect tiny blonds looking up towards him, their hero, their father and he smiles. He barely hears how serious it is, and quickly laughs it off before Potter gets any weird ideas, “only if you carry the baby this time.”

A snore is all he gets in response.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a second part, which I have not finished yet. It was supposed to be published in August, complete, but due to some events, will be posted now. This fandom has given me some wonderful Mpreg fics and I wanted to give back, and write my longest work at the same time. Some parts have been removed, but will be posted as a separate chapter at the end of the fic.
> 
> I'll also adjust the tags for the second chapter, once Draco and Harry get together, but until then, this fic is Gen.


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